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FAHRENHEIT 451 
by Ray Bradbury 

This one, with gratitude, is for DON CONGDON. 

FAHRENHEIT 451: 

The temperature at which book-paper catches fire and burns 



PARTI 

IT WAS A PLEASURE TO BURN 

IT was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the 
brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, 
the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing 
all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. 
With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with 
the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire 
that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He 
wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the 
flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up 
in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning. 
Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame. 
He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt- 
corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile still gripped by his face 
muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that, smile, it never ever went away, as long as he 
remembered. 

He hung up his black-beetle-coloured helmet and shined it, he hung his flameproof jacket neatly; 
he showered luxuriously, and then, whistling, hands in pockets, walked across the upper floor of 
the fire station and fell down the hole. At the last moment, when disaster seemed positive, he 
pulled his hands from his pockets and broke his fall by grasping the golden pole. He slid to a 
squeaking halt, the heels one inch from the concrete floor downstairs. 
He walked out of the fire station and along the midnight street toward the subway where the 
silent, air-propelled train slid soundlessly down its lubricated flue in the earth and let him out 
with a great puff of warm air an to the cream-tiled escalator rising to the suburb. 
Whistling, he let the escalator waft him into the still night air. He walked toward the comer, 
thinking little at all about nothing in particular. Before he reached the corner, however, he 
slowed as if a wind had sprung up from nowhere, as if someone had called his name. 
The last few nights he had had the most uncertain feelings about the sidewalk just around the 
corner here, moving in the starlight toward his house. He had felt that a moment before his 
making the turn, someone had been there. The air seemed charged with a special calm as if 
someone had waited there, quietly, and only a moment before he came, simply turned to a 
shadow and let him through. Perhaps his nose detected a faint perfume, perhaps the skin on the 
backs of his hands, on his face, felt the temperature rise at this one spot where a person's 
standing might raise the immediate atmosphere ten degrees for an instant. There was no 



understanding it. Each time he made the turn, he saw only the white, unused, buckling sidewalk, 

with perhaps, on one night, something vanishing swiftly across a lawn before he could focus his 

eyes or speak. 

But now, tonight, he slowed almost to a stop. His inner mind, reaching out to turn the corner for 

him, had heard the faintest whisper. Breathing? Or was the atmosphere compressed merely by 

someone standing very quietly there, waiting? 

He turned the corner. 

The autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was 

moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the leaves carry her 

forward. Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling leaves. Her face was slender 

and milk-white, and in it was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless 

curiosity. It was a look, almost, of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no 

move escaped them. Her dress was white and it whispered. He almost thought he heard the 

motion of her hands as she walked, and the infinitely small sound now, the white stir of her face 

turning when she discovered she was a moment away from a man who stood in the middle of the 

pavement waiting. 

The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain. The girl stopped and 

looked as if she might pull back in surprise, but instead stood regarding Montag with eyes so 

dark and shining and alive, that he felt he had said something quite wonderful. But he knew his 

mouth had only moved to say hello, and then when she seemed hypnotized by the salamander on 

his arm and the phoenix-disc on his chest, he spoke again. 

"Of course," he said, "you're a new neighbour, aren't you?" 

"And you must be"-she raised her eyes from his professional symbols-"the fireman." Her voice 

trailed off. 

"How oddly you say that." 

"I'd-i'd have known it with my eyes shut," she said, slowly. 

"What-the smell of kerosene? My wife always complains," he laughed. "You never wash it off 

completely." 

"No, you don't," she said, in awe. 

He felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for end, shaking him quietly, and 

emptying his pockets, without once moving herself. 

"Kerosene," he said, because the silence had lengthened, "is nothing but perfume to me." 

"Does it seem like that, really?" 

"Of course. Why not?" 

She gave herself time to think of it. "I don't know." She turned to face the sidewalk going toward 

their homes. "Do you mind if I walk back with you? I'm Clarisse McClellan." 

"Clarisse. Guy Montag. Come along. What are you doing out so late wandering around? How 

old are you?" 

They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and there was the faintest 

breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air, and he looked around and realized this was 

quite impossible, so late in the year. 

There was only the girl walking with him now, her face bright as snow in the moonlight, and he 

knew she was working his questions around, seeking the best answers she could possibly give. 

"Well," she said, "I'm seventeen and I'm crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When 

people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane. Isn't this a nice time of night to 



walk? I like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and 
watch the sun rise." 

They walked on again in silence and finally she said, thoughtfully, "You know, I'm not afraid of 
you at all." 

He was surprised. "Why should you be?" 

"So many people are. Afraid of firemen, I mean. But you're just a man, after all..." 
He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and 
tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two 
miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him 
now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of 
electricity but-what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the 
candle. One time, when he was a child, in a power-failure, his mother had found and lit a last 
candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast 
dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed, 
hoping that the power might not come on again too soon .... 
And then Clarisse McClellan said: 

"Do you mind if I ask? How long have you worked at being a fireman?" 
"Since I was twenty, ten years ago." 
"Do you ever read any of the books you bum?" 
He laughed. "That's against the law!" 
"Oh. Of course." 

"It's fine work. Monday bum Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes, 
then bum the ashes. That's our official slogan." 

They walked still further and the girl said, "Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of 
going to start them?" 

"No. Houses, have always been fireproof, take my word for it." 

"Strange. I heard once that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed 
firemen to stop the flames." 
He laughed. 

She glanced quickly over. "Why are you laughing?" 
"I don't know." He started to laugh again and stopped "Why?" 

"You laugh when I haven't been funny and you answer right off. You never stop to think what 
I've asked you." 

He stopped walking, "You are an odd one," he said, looking at her. "Haven't you any respect?" 
"I don't mean to be insulting. It's just, I love to watch people too much, I guess." 
"Well, doesn't this mean anything to you?" He tapped the numerals 451 stitched on his char- 
coloured sleeve. 

"Yes," she whispered. She increased her pace. "Have you ever watched the jet cars racing on the 
boulevards down that way? 
"You're changing the subject!" 

"I sometimes think drivers don't know what grass is, or flowers, because they never see them 
slowly," she said. "If you showed a driver a green blur, Oh yes! he'd say, that's grass! A pink 
blur? That's a rose-garden! White blurs are houses. Brown blurs are cows. My uncle drove 
slowly on a highway once. He drove forty miles an hour and they jailed him for two days. Isn't 
that funny, and sad, too?" 
"You think too many things," said Montag, uneasily. 



"I rarely watch the 'parlour walls' or go to races or Fun Parks. So I've lots of time for crazy 

thoughts, I guess. Have you seen the two-hundred-foot-long billboards in the country beyond 

town? Did you know that once billboards were only twenty feet long? But cars started rushing by 

so quickly they had to stretch the advertising out so it would last." 

"I didn't know that!" Montag laughed abruptly. 

"Bet I know something else you don't. There's dew on the grass in the morning." 

He suddenly couldn't remember if he had known this or not, and it made him quite irritable. 

"And if you look"-she nodded at the sky-"there's a man in the moon." 

He hadn't looked for a long time. 

They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and 

uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house all its 

lights were blazing. 

"What's going on?" Montag had rarely seen that many house lights. 

"Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It's like being a pedestrian, only 

rarer. My uncle was arrested another time-did I tell you?-for being a pedestrian. Oh, we're most 

peculiar." 

"But what do you talk about?" 

She laughed at this. "Good night!" She started up her walk. Then she seemed to remember 

something and came back to look at him with wonder and curiosity. "Are you happy?" she said. 

"Am I what?" he cried. 

But she was gone-running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently. 

"Happy! Of all the nonsense." 

He stopped laughing. 

He put his hand into the glove-hole of his front door and let it know his touch. The front door 

slid open. 

Of course I'm happy. What does she think? I'm not? he asked the quiet rooms. He stood looking 

up at the ventilator grille in the hall and suddenly remembered that something lay hidden behind 

the grille, something that seemed to peer down at him now. He moved his eyes quickly away. 

What a strange meeting on a strange night. He remembered nothing like it save one afternoon a 

year ago when he had met an old man in the park and they had talked .... 

Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank wall. The girl's face was there, really quite 

beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock 

seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the 

clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all 

certainty and knowing what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further 

darknesses but moving also toward a new sun. 

"What?" asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at times, quite 

independent of will, habit, and conscience. 

He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people 

did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often-he searched for a 

simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other 

people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost 

trembling thought? 

What incredible power of identification the girl had; she was like the eager watcher of a 

marionette show, anticipating each flicker of an eyelid, each gesture of his hand, each flick of a 

finger, the moment before it began. How long had they walked together? Three minutes? Five? 



Yet how large that time seemed now. How immense a figure she was on the stage before him; 
what a shadow she threw on the wall with her slender body! He felt that if his eye itched, she 
might blink. And if the muscles of his jaws stretched imperceptibly, she would yawn long before 
he would. 

Why, he thought, now that I think of it, she almost seemed to be waiting for me there, in the 
street, so damned late at night .... 
He opened the bedroom door. 

It was like coming into the cold marbled room of a mausoleum after the moon had set. Complete 
darkness, not a hint of the silver world outside, the windows tightly shut, the chamber a tomb- 
world where no sound from the great city could penetrate. The room was not empty. 
He listened. 

The little mosquito-delicate dancing hum in the air, the electrical murmur of a hidden wasp snug 
in its special pink warm nest. The music was almost loud enough so he could follow the tune. 
He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over, and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff 
of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out. Darkness. He was 
not happy. He was not happy. He said the words to himself. He recognized this as the true state 
of affairs. He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the 
mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back. 
Without turning on the light he imagined how this room would look. His wife stretched on the 
bed, uncovered and cold, like a body displayed on the lid of a tomb, her eyes fixed to the ceiling 
by invisible threads of steel, immovable. And in her ears the little Seashells, the thimble radios 
tamped tight, and an electronic ocean of sound, of music and talk and music and talk coming in, 
coming in on the shore of her unsleeping mind. The room was indeed empty. Every night the 
waves came in and bore her off on their great tides of sound, floating her, wide-eyed, toward 
morning. There had been no night in the last two years that Mildred had not swum that sea, had 
not gladly gone down in it for the third time. 

The room was cold but nonetheless he felt he could not breathe. He did not wish to open the 
curtains and open the french windows, for he did not want the moon to come into the room. So, 
with the feeling of a man who will die in the next hour for lack of air,.he felt his way toward his 
open, separate, and therefore cold bed. 

An instant before his foot hit the object on the floor he knew he would hit such an object. It was 
not unlike the feeling he had experienced before turning the corner and almost knocking the girl 
down. His foot, sending vibrations ahead, received back echoes of the small barrier across its 
path even as the foot swung. His foot kicked. The object gave a dull clink and slid off in 
darkness. 

He stood very straight and listened to the person on the dark bed in the completely featureless 
night. The breath coming out of the nostrils was so faint it stirred only the furthest fringes of life, 
a small leaf, a black feather, a single fibre of hair. 

He still did not want outside light. He pulled out his igniter, felt the salamander etched on its 
silver disc, gave it a flick.... 

Two moonstones looked up at him in the light of his small hand-held fire; two pale moonstones 
buried in a creek of clear water over which the life of the world ran, not touching them. 
"Mildred ! " 

Her face was like a snow-covered island upon which rain might fall; but it felt no rain; over 
which clouds might pass their moving shadows, but she felt no shadow. There was only the 
singing of the thimble-wasps in her tamped-shut ears, and her eyes all glass, and breath going in 



and out, softly, faintly, in and out of her nostrils, and her not caring whether it came or went, 

went or came. 

The object he had sent tumbling with his foot now glinted under the edge of his own bed. The 

small crystal bottle of sleeping-tablets which earlier today had been filled with thirty capsules 

and which now lay uncapped and empty in the light of the tiny flare. 

As he stood there the sky over the house screamed. There was a tremendous ripping sound as if 

two giant hands had torn ten thousand miles of black linen down the seam. Montag was cut in 

half. He felt his chest chopped down and split apart. The jet-bombs going over, going over, going 

over, one two, one two, one two, six of them, nine of them, twelve of them, one and one and one 

and another and another and another, did all the screaming for him. He opened his own mouth 

and let their shriek come down and out between his bared teeth. The house shook. The flare went 

out in his hand. The moonstones vanished. He felt his hand plunge toward the telephone. 

The jets were gone. He felt his lips move, brushing the mouthpiece of the phone. "Emergency 

hospital." A terrible whisper. 

He felt that the stars had been pulverized by the sound of the black jets and that in the morning 

the earth would be thought as he stood shivering in the dark, and let his lips go on moving and 

moving. 

They had this machine. They had two machines, really. One of them slid down into your 

stomach like a black cobra down an echoing well looking for all the old water and the old time 

gathered there. It drank up the green matter that flowed to the top in a slow boil. Did it drink of 

the darkness? Did it suck out all the poisons accumulated with the years? It fed in silence with an 

occasional sound of inner suffocation and blind searching. It had an Eye. The impersonal 

operator of the machine could, by wearing a special optical helmet, gaze into the soul of the 

person whom he was pumping out. What did the Eye see? He did not say. He saw but did not see 

what the Eye saw. The entire operation was not unlike the digging of a trench in one's yard. The 

woman on the bed was no more than a hard stratum of marble they had reached. Go on, anyway, 

shove the bore down, slush up the emptiness, if such a thing could be brought out in the throb of 

the suction snake. The operator stood smoking a cigarette. The other machine was working too. 

The other machine was operated by an equally impersonal fellow in non-stainable reddish-brown 

overalls. This machine pumped all of the blood from the body and replaced it with fresh blood 

and serum. 

"Got to clean 'em out both ways," said the operator, standing over the silent woman. "No use 

getting the stomach if you don't clean the blood. Leave that stuff in the blood and the blood hits 

the brain like a mallet, bang, a couple of thousand times and the brain just gives up, just quits." 

"Stop it!" said Montag. 

"I was just sayin'," said the operator. 

"Are you done?" said Montag. 

They shut the machines up tight. "We're done." His anger did not even touch them. They stood 

with the cigarette smoke curling around their noses and into their eyes without making them 

blink or squint. "That's fifty bucks." 

"First, why don't you tell me if she'll be all right?" 

"Sure, she'll be O.K. We got all the mean stuff right in our suitcase here, it can't get at her now. 

As I said, you take out the old and put in the new and you're O.K." 

"Neither of you is an M.D. Why didn't they send an M.D. from Emergency?" 

"Hell! " the operator's cigarette moved on his lips. "We get these cases nine or ten a night. Got so 

many, starting a few years ago, we had the special machines built. With the optical lens, of 



course, that was new; the rest is ancient. You don't need an M.D., case like this; all you need is 
two handymen, clean up the problem in half an hour. Look"-he started for the door-"we gotta go. 
Just had another call on the old ear-thimble. Ten blocks from here. Someone else just jumped off 
the cap of a pillbox. Call if you need us again. Keep her quiet. We got a contra- sedative in her. 
She'll wake up hungry. So long." 

And the men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths, the men with the eyes of puff- 
adders, took up their load of machine and tube, their case of liquid melancholy and the slow dark 
sludge of nameless stuff, and strolled out the door. 

Montag sank down into a chair and looked at this woman. Her eyes were closed now, gently, and 
he put out his hand to feel the warmness of breath on his palm. 
"Mildred," he said, at last. 

There are too many of us, he thought. There are billions of us and that's too many. Nobody 
knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out. Strangers 
come and take your blood. Good God, who were those men? I never saw them before in my life ! 
Half an hour passed. 

The bloodstream in this woman was new and it seemed to have done a new thing to her. Her 
cheeks were very pink and her lips were very fresh and full of colour and they looked soft and 
relaxed. Someone else's blood there. If only someone else's flesh and brain and memory. If only 
they could have taken her mind along to the dry-cleaner's and emptied the pockets and steamed 
and cleansed it and reblocked it and brought it back in the morning. If only . . . 
He got up and put back the curtains and opened the windows wide to let the night air in. It was 
two o'clock in the morning. Was it only an hour ago, Clarisse McClellan in the street, and him 
coming in, and the dark room and his foot kicking the little crystal bottle? Only an hour, but the 
world had melted down and sprung up in a new and colourless form. 

Laughter blew across the moon-coloured lawn from the house of Clarisse and her father and 
mother and the uncle who smiled so quietly and so earnestly. Above all, their laughter was 
relaxed and hearty and not forced in any way, coming from the house that was so brightly lit this 
late at night while all the other houses were kept to themselves in darkness. Montag heard the 
voices talking, talking, talking, giving, talking, weaving, reweaving their hypnotic web. 
Montag moved out through the french windows and crossed the lawn, without even thinking of 
it. He stood outside the talking house in the shadows, thinking he might even tap on their door 
and whisper, "Let me come in. I won't say anything. I just want to listen. What is it you're 
saying?" 

But instead he stood there, very cold, his face a mask of ice, listening to a man's voice (the 
uncle?) moving along at an easy pace: 

"Well, after all, this is the age of the disposable tissue. Blow your nose on a person, wad them, 
flush them away, reach for another, blow, wad, flush. Everyone using everyone else's coattails. 
How are you supposed to root for the home team when you don't even have a programme or 
know the names? For that matter, what colour jerseys are they wearing as they trot out on to the 
field?" 

Montag moved back to his own house, left the window wide, checked Mildred, tucked the covers 
about her carefully, and then lay down with the moonlight on his cheek-bones and on the 
frowning ridges in his brow, with the moonlight distilled in each eye to form a silver cataract 
there. 

One drop of rain. Clarisse. Another drop. Mildred. A third. The uncle. A fourth. The fire tonight. 
One, Clarisse. Two, Mildred. Three, uncle. Four, fire, One, Mildred, two, Clarisse. One, two, 



three, four, five, Clarisse, Mildred, uncle, fire, sleeping-tablets, men, disposable tissue, coat-tails, 

blow, wad, flush, Clarisse, Mildred, uncle, fire, tablets, tissues, blow, wad, flush. One, two, 

three, one, two, three! Rain. The storm. The uncle laughing. Thunder falling downstairs. The 

whole world pouring down. The fire gushing up in a volcano. All rushing on down around in a 

spouting roar and rivering stream toward morning. 

"I don't know anything any more," he said, and let a sleep-lozenge dissolve on his tongue. 

At nine in the morning, Mildred's bed was empty. 

Montag got up quickly, his heart pumping, and ran down the hall and stopped at the kitchen 

door. 

Toast popped out of the silver toaster, was seized by a spidery metal hand that drenched it with 

melted butter. 

Mildred watched the toast delivered to her plate. She had both ears plugged with electronic bees 

that were humming the hour away. She looked up suddenly, saw him, and nodded. 

"You all right?" he asked. 

She was an expert at lip-reading from ten years of apprenticeship at Seashell ear-thimbles. She 

nodded again. She set the toaster clicking away at another piece of bread. 

Montag sat down. 

His wife said, "I don't know why I should be so hungry." 

"You-?" 

"I'm HUNGRY." 

"Last night," he began. 

"Didn't sleep well. Feel terrible," she said. "God, I'm hungry. I can't figure it." 

"Last night-" he said again. 

She watched his lips casually. "What about last night?" 

"Don't you remember?" 

"What? Did we have a wild party or something? Feel like I've a hangover. God, I'm hungry. Who 

was here?" 

"A few people," he said. 

"That's what I thought." She chewed her toast. "Sore stomach, but I'm hungry as all-get-out. 

Hope I didn't do anything foolish at the party." 

"No," he said, quietly. 

The toaster spidered out a piece of buttered bread for him. He held it in his hand, feeling grateful. 

"You don't look so hot yourself," said his wife. 

In the late afternoon it rained and the entire world was dark grey. He stood in the hall of his 

house, putting on his badge with the orange salamander burning across it. He stood looking up at 

the air-conditioning vent in the hall for a long time. His wife in the TV parlour paused long 

enough from reading her script to glance up. "Hey," she said. "The man's THINKING!" 

"Yes," he said. "I wanted to talk to you." He paused. "You took all the pills in your bottle last 

night." 

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," she said, surprised. 

"The bottle was empty." 

"I wouldn't do a thing like that. Why would I do a thing like that?" she asked. 

"Maybe you took two pills and forgot and took two more, and forgot again and took two more, 

and were so dopy you kept right on until you had thirty or forty of them in you." 

"Heck," she said, "what would I want to go and do a silly thing like that for?" 

"I don't know," he said. 



She was quite obviously waiting for him to go. "I didn't do that," she said. "Never in a billion 
years." 

"All right if you say so," he said. 

"That's what the lady said." She turned back to her script. 
"What's on this afternoon?" he asked tiredly. 

She didn't look up from her script again. "Well, this is a play comes on the wall-to-wall circuit in 
ten minutes. They mailed me my part this morning. I sent in some box-tops. They write the script 
with one part missing. It's a new idea. The home-maker, that's me, is the missing part. When it 
comes time for the missing lines, they all look at me out of the three walls and I say the lines: 
Here, for instance, the man says, "What do you think of this whole idea, Helen?' And he looks at 
me sitting here centre stage, see? And I say, I say --" She paused and ran her finger under a line 
in the script. " I think that's fine!' And then they go on with the play until he says, "Do you agree 
to that, Helen!' and I say, "I sure do!' Isn't that fun, Guy?" 
He stood in the hall looking at her. 
"It's sure fun," she said. 
"What's the play about?" 

"I just told you. There are these people named Bob and Ruth and Helen." 
"Oh." 

"It's really fun. It'll be even more fun when we can afford to have the fourth wall installed. How 
long you figure before we save up and get the fourth wall torn out and a fourth wall-TV put in? 
It's only two thousand dollars." 
"That's one-third of my yearly pay." 

"It's only two thousand dollars," she replied. "And I should think you'd consider me sometimes. 
If we had a fourth wall, why it'd be just like this room wasn't ours at all, but all kinds of exotic 
people's rooms. We could do without a few things." 

"We're already doing without a few things to pay for the third wall. It was put in only two 
months ago, remember?" 

"Is that all it was?" She sat looking at him for a long moment. "Well, good-bye, dear." . 
"Good-bye," he said. He stopped and turned around. "Does it have a happy ending?" 
"I haven't read that far." 

He walked over, read the last page, nodded, folded the script, and handed it back to her. He 
walked out of the house into the rain. 

The rain was thinning away and the girl was walking in the centre of the sidewalk with her head 
up and the few drops falling on her face. She smiled when she saw Montag. 
"Hello! " 

He said hello and then said, "What are you up to now?" 
"I'm still crazy. The rain feels good. I love to walk in it. 
"I don't think I'd like that," he said. 
"You might if you tried." 
"I never have." 

She licked her lips. "Rain even tastes good." 
"What do you do, go around trying everything once?" he asked. 
"Sometimes twice." She looked at something in her hand. 
"What've you got there?" he said. 



"I guess it's the last of the dandelions this year. I didn't think I'd find one on the lawn this late. 

Have you ever heard of rubbing it under your chin? Look." She touched her chin with the flower, 

laughing. 

"Why?" 

"If it rubs off, it means I'm in love. Has it?" 

He could hardly do anything else but look. 

"Well?" she said. 

"You're yellow under there." 

"Fine! Let's try YOU now." 

"It won't work for me." 

"Here." Before he could move she had put the dandelion under his chin. He drew back and she 

laughed. "Hold still!" 

She peered under his chin and frowned. 

"Well?" he said. 

"What a shame," she said. "You're not in love with anyone." 

"Yes, I am ! " 

"It doesn't show." 

"I am very much in love! " He tried to conjure up a face to fit the words, but there was no face. "I 

am!" 

"Oh please don't look that way." 

"It's that dandelion," he said. "You've used it all up on yourself. That's why it won't work for 

me." 

"Of course, that must be it. Oh, now I've upset you, I can see I have; I'm sorry, really I am." She 

touched his elbow. 

"No, no," he said, quickly, "I'm all right." 

"I've got to be going, so say you forgive me. I don't want you angry with me." 

"I'm not angry. Upset, yes." 

"I've got to go to see my psychiatrist now. They make me go. I made up things to say. I don't 

know what he thinks of me. He says I'm a regular onion! I keep him busy peeling away the 

layers." 

"I'm inclined to believe you need the psychiatrist," said Montag. 

"You don't mean that." 

He took a breath and let it out and at last said, "No, I don't mean that." 

"The psychiatrist wants to know why I go out and hike around in the forests and watch the birds 

and collect butterflies. I'll show you my collection some day." 

"Good." 

"They want to know what I do with all my time. I tell them that sometimes I just sit and think. 

But I won't tell them what. I've got them running. And sometimes, I tell them, I like to put my 

head back, like this, and let the rain fall into my mouth. It tastes just like wine. Have you ever 

tried it?" 

"No I--" 

"You HAVE forgiven me, haven't you?" 

"Yes." He thought about it. "Yes, I have. God knows why. You're peculiar, you're aggravating, 

yet you're easy to forgive. You say you're seventeen?" 

"Well-next month." 



"How odd. How strange. And my wife thirty and yet you seem so much older at times. I can't get 
over it." 

"You're peculiar yourself, Mr. Montag. Sometimes I even forget you're a fireman. Now, may I 
make you angry again?" 
"Go ahead." 

"How did it start? How did you get into it? How did you pick your work and how did you 
happen to think to take the job you have? You're not like the others. I've seen a few; I know. 
When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon, 
last night. The others would never do that. The others would walk off and leave me talking. Or 
threaten me. No one has time any more for anyone else. You're one of the few who put up with 
me. That's why I think it's so strange you're a fireman, it just doesn't seem right for you, 
somehow." 

He felt his body divide itself into a hotness and a coldness, a softness and a hardness, a trembling 
and a not trembling, the two halves grinding one upon the other. 
"You'd better run on to your appointment," he said. 

And she ran off and left him standing there in the rain. Only after a long time did he move. 
And then, very slowly, as he walked, he tilted his head back in the rain, for just a few moments, 
and opened his mouth.... 

The Mechanical Hound slept but did not sleep, lived but did not live in its gently humming, 
gently vibrating, softly illuminated kennel back in a dark corner of the firehouse. The dim light 
of one in the morning, the moonlight from the open sky framed through the great window, 
touched here and there on the brass and the copper and the steel of the faintly trembling beast. 
Light flickered on bits of ruby glass and on sensitive capillary hairs in the nylon-brushed nostrils 
of the creature that quivered gently, gently, gently, its eight legs spidered under it on rubber- 
padded paws. 

Montag slid down the brass pole. He went out to look at the city and the clouds had cleared away 
completely, and he lit a cigarette and came back to bend down and look at the Hound. It was like 
a great bee come home from some field where the honey is full of poison wildness, of insanity 
and nightmare, its body crammed with that over-rich nectar and now it was sleeping the evil out 
of itself. 

"Hello," whispered Montag, fascinated as always with the dead beast, the living beast. 
At night when things got dull, which was every night, the men slid down the brass poles, and set 
the ticking combinations of the olfactory system of the Hound and let loose rats in the firehouse 
area-way, and sometimes chickens, and sometimes cats that would have to be drowned anyway, 
and there would be betting to see which the Hound would seize first. The animals were turned 
loose. Three seconds later the game was done, the rat, cat, or chicken caught half across the 
areaway, gripped in gentling paws while a four-inch hollow steel needle plunged down from the 
proboscis of the Hound to inject massive jolts of morphine or procaine. The pawn was then 
tossed in the incinerator. A new game began. 

Montag stayed upstairs most nights when this went on. There had been a time two years ago 
when he had bet with the best of them, and lost a week's salary and faced Mildred's insane anger, 
which showed itself in veins and blotches. But now at night he lay in his bunk, face turned to the 
wall, listening to whoops of laughter below and the piano-string scurry of rat feet, the violin 
squeaking of mice, and the great shadowing, motioned silence of the Hound leaping out like a 
moth in the raw light, finding, holding its victim, inserting the needle and going back to its 
kennel to die as if a switch had been turned. 



Montag touched the muzzle. . 

The Hound growled. 

Montag jumped back. 

The Hound half rose in its kennel and looked at him with green-blue neon light flickering in its 

suddenly activated eyebulbs. It growled again, a strange rasping combination of electrical sizzle, 

a frying sound, a scraping of metal, a turning of cogs that seemed rusty and ancient with 

suspicion. 

"No, no, boy," said Montag, his heart pounding. 

He saw the silver needle extended upon the air an inch, pull back, extend, pull back. The growl 

simmered in the beast and it looked at him. 

Montag backed up. The Hound took a step from its kennel. 

Montag grabbed the brass pole with one hand. The pole, reacting, slid upward, and took him 

through the ceiling, quietly. He stepped off in the half-lit deck of the upper level. He was 

trembling and his face was green-white. Below, the Hound had sunk back down upon its eight 

incredible insect legs and was humming to itself again, its multi-faceted eyes at peace. 

Montag stood, letting the fears pass, by the drop-hole. Behind him, four men at a card table 

under a green-lidded light in the corner glanced briefly but said nothing. Only the man with the 

Captain's hat and the sign of the Phoenix on his hat, at last, curious, his playing cards in his thin 

hand, talked across the long room. 

"Montag . . . ?" 

"It doesn't like me," said Montag. 

"What, the Hound?" The Captain studied his cards. 

"Come off it. It doesn't like or dislike. It just "functions.' It's like a lesson in ballistics. It has a 

trajectory we decide for it. It follows through. It targets itself, homes itself, and cuts off. It's only 

copper wire, storage batteries, and electricity." 

Montag swallowed. "Its calculators can be set to any combination, so many amino acids, so 

much sulphur, so much butterfat and alkaline. Right?" 

"We all know that." 

"All of those chemical balances and percentages on all of us here in the house are recorded in the 

master file downstairs. It would be easy for someone to set up a partial combination on the 

Hound's 'memory,' a touch of amino acids, perhaps. That would account for what the animal did 

just now. Reacted toward me." 

"Hell," said the Captain. 

"Irritated, but not completely angry. Just enough 'memory' set up in it by someone so it growled 

when I touched it. " 

"Who would do a thing like that?." asked the Captain. "You haven't any enemies here, Guy." 

"None that I know of." 

"We'll have the Hound checked by our technicians tomorrow. 

"This isn't the first time it's threatened me," said Montag. "Last month it happened twice." 

"We'll fix it up. Don't worry" 

But Montag did not move and only stood thinking of the ventilator grille in the hall at home and 

what lay hidden behind the grille. If someone here in the firehouse knew about the ventilator 

then mightn't they "tell" the Hound . . . ? 

The Captain came over to the drop-hole and gave Montag a questioning glance. 

"I was just figuring," said Montag, "what does the Hound think about down there nights? Is it 

coming alive on us, really? It makes me cold." 



"It doesn't think anything we don't want it to think." 

"That's sad," said Montag, quietly, "because all we put into it is hunting and finding and killing. 

What a shame if that's all it can ever know.'" 

Beatty snorted, gently. "Hell! It's a fine bit of craftsmanship, a good rifle that can fetch its own 

target and guarantees the bull's-eye every time." 

"That's why," said Montag. "I wouldn't want to be its next victim. 

"Why? You got a guilty conscience about something?" 

Montag glanced up swiftly. 

Beatty stood there looking at him steadily with his eyes, while his mouth opened and began to 

laugh, very softly. 

One two three four five six seven days. And as many times he came out of the house and Clarisse 

was there somewhere in the world. Once he saw her shaking a walnut tree, once he saw her 

sitting on the lawn knitting a blue sweater, three or four times he found a bouquet of late flowers 

on his porch, or a handful of chestnuts in a little sack, or some autumn leaves neatly pinned to a 

sheet of white paper and thumb-tacked to his door. Every day Clarisse walked him to the corner. 

One day it was raining, the next it was clear, the day after that the wind blew strong, and the day 

after that it was mild and calm, and the day after that calm day was a day like a furnace of 

summer and Clarisse with her face all sunburnt by late afternoon. 

"Why is it," he said, one time, at the subway entrance, "I feel I've known you so many years?" 

"Because I like you," she said, "and I don't want anything from you. And because we know each 

other." 

"You make me feel very old and very much like a father." 

"Now you explain," she said, "why you haven't any daughters like me, if you love children so 

much?" 

"I don't know." 

"You're joking!" 

"I mean-" He stopped and shook his head. "Well, my wife, she . . . she just never wanted any 

children at all." 

The girl stopped smiling. "I'm sorry. I really, thought you were having fun at my expense. I'm a 

fool." 

"No, no," he said. "It was a good question. It's been a long time since anyone cared enough to 

ask. A good question." 

"Let's talk about something else. Have you ever smelled old leaves? Don't they smell like 

cinnamon? Here. Smell." 

"Why, yes, it is like cinnamon in a way." 

She looked at him with her clear dark eyes. "You always seem shocked." 

"It's just I haven't had time--" 

"Did you look at the stretched-out billboards like I told you?" 

"I think so. Yes." He had to laugh. 

"Your laugh sounds much nicer than it did" 

"Does it?" 

"Much more relaxed." 

He felt at ease and comfortable. "Why aren't you in school? I see you every day wandering 

around." 

"Oh, they don't miss me," she said. "I'm anti-social, they say. I don't mix. It's so strange. I'm very 

social indeed. It all depends on what you mean by social, doesn't it? Social to me means talking 



about things like this." She rattled some chestnuts that had fallen off the tree in the front yard. 
"Or talking about how strange the world is. Being with people is nice. But I don't think it's social 
to get a bunch of people together and then not let them talk, do you? An hour of TV class, an 
hour of basketball or baseball or running, another hour of transcription history or painting 
pictures, and more sports, but do you know, we never ask questions, or at least most don't; they 
just run the answers at you, bing, bing, bing, and us sitting there for four more hours of film- 
teacher. That's not social to me at all. It's a lot of funnels and a lot of water poured down the 
spout and out the bottom, and them telling us it's wine when it's not. They run us so ragged by 
the end of the day we can't do anything but go to bed or head for a Fun Park to bully people 
around, break windowpanes in the Window Smasher place or wreck cars in the Car Wrecker 
place with the big steel ball. Or go out in the cars and race on the streets, trying to see how close 
you can get to lamp-posts, playing "chicken' and 'knock hub-caps.' I guess I'm everything they 
say I am, all right. I haven't any friends. That's supposed to prove I'm abnormal. But everyone I 
know is either shouting or dancing around like wild or beating up one another. Do you notice 
how people hurt each other nowadays?" 
"You sound so very old." 

"Sometimes I'm ancient. I'm afraid of children my own age. They kill each other. Did it always 
used to be that way? My uncle says no. Six of my friends have been shot in the last year alone. 
Ten of them died in car wrecks. I'm afraid of them and they don't like me because I'm afraid. My 
uncle says his grandfather remembered when children didn't kill each other. But that was a long 
time ago when they had things different. They believed in responsibility, my uncle says. Do you 
know, I'm responsible. I was spanked when I needed it, years ago. And I do all the shopping and 
house-cleaning by hand. 

"But most of all," she said, "I like to watch people. Sometimes I ride the subway all day and look 
at them and listen to them. I just want to figure out who they are and what they want and where 
they're going. Sometimes I even go to the Fun Parks and ride in the jet cars when they race on 
the edge of town at midnight and the police don't care as long as they're insured. As long as 
everyone has ten thousand insurance everyone's happy. Sometimes I sneak around and listen in 
subways. Or I listen at soda fountains, and do you know what?" 
"What?" 

"People don't talk about anything." 
"Oh, they must!" 

"No, not anything. They name a lot of cars or clothes or swimming-pools mostly and say how 
swell! But they all say the same things and nobody says anything different from anyone else. 
And most of the time in the cafes they have the jokeboxes on and the same jokes most of the 
time, or the musical wall lit and all the coloured patterns running up and down, but it's only 
colour and all abstract. And at the museums, have you ever been? All abstract. That's all there is 
now. My uncle says it was different once. A long time back sometimes pictures said things or 
even showed people. " 

"Your uncle said, your uncle said. Your uncle must be a remarkable man." 
"He is. He certainly is. Well, I've got to be going. Goodbye, Mr. Montag." 
"Good-bye." 
"Good-bye...." 

One two three four five six seven days: the firehouse. 
"Montag, you shin that pole like a bird up a tree." 
Third day. 



"Montag, I see you came in the back door this time. The Hound bother you?" 
"No, no." 
Fourth day. 

"Montag, a funny thing. Heard tell this morning. Fireman in Seattle, purposely set a Mechanical 
Hound to his own chemical complex and let it loose. What kind of suicide would you call that?" 
Five six seven days. 

And then, Clarisse was gone. He didn't know what there was about the afternoon, but it was not 
seeing her somewhere in the world. The lawn was empty, the trees empty, the street empty, and 
while at first he did not even know he missed her or was even looking for her, the fact was that 
by the time he reached the subway, there were vague stirrings of un-ease in him. Something was 
the matter, his routine had been disturbed. A simple routine, true, established in a short few days, 
and yet . . . ? He almost turned back to make the walk again, to give her time to appear. He was 
certain if he tried the same route, everything would work out fine. But it was late, and the arrival 
of his train put a stop to his plan. 

The flutter of cards, motion of hands, of eyelids, the drone of the time-voice in the firehouse 
ceiling "... one thirty- five. Thursday morning, November 4th,... one thirty-six . . . one thirty- 
seven a.m... " The tick of the playing-cards on the greasy table-top, all the sounds came to 
Montag, behind his closed eyes, behind the barrier he had momentarily erected. He could feel the 
firehouse full of glitter and shine and silence, of brass colours, the colours of coins, of gold, of 
silver: The unseen men across the table were sighing on their cards, waiting. 
". . .one forty-five..." The voice-clock mourned out the cold hour of a cold morning of a still 
colder year. 

"What's wrong, Montag?" 
Montag opened his eyes. 

A radio hummed somewhere. "... war may be declared any hour. This country stands ready to 
defend its--" 

The firehouse trembled as a great flight of jet planes whistled a single note across the black 
morning sky. 

Montag blinked. Beatty was looking at him as if he were a museum statue. At any moment, 
Beatty might rise and walk about him, touching, exploring his guilt and self-consciousness. 
Guilt? What guilt was that? 
"Your play, Montag." 

Montag looked at these men whose faces were sunburnt by a thousand real and ten thousand 
imaginary fires, whose work flushed their cheeks and fevered their eyes. These men who looked 
steadily into their platinum igniter flames as they lit their eternally burning black pipes. They and 
their charcoal hair and soot-coloured brows and bluish-ash-smeared cheeks where they had 
shaven close; but their heritage showed. Montag started up, his mouth opened. Had he ever seen 
a fireman that didn't have black hair, black brows, a fiery face, and a blue-steel shaved but 
unshaved look? These men were all mirror-images of himself! Were all firemen picked then for 
their looks as well as their proclivities? The colour of cinders and ash about them, and the 
continual smell of burning from their pipes. Captain Beatty there, rising in thunderheads of 
tobacco smoke. Beatty opening a fresh tobacco packet, crumpling the cellophane into a sound of 
fire. 

Montag looked at the cards in his own hands. "I-I've been thinking. About the fire last week. 
About the man whose library we fixed. What happened to him?" 
"They took him screaming off to the asylum" 



"He. wasn't insane." 

Beatty arranged his cards quietly. "Any man's insane who thinks he can fool the Government and 

us." " 

"I've tried to imagine," said Montag, "just how it would feel. I mean to have firemen burn our 

houses and our books." 

"We haven't any books." 

"But if we did have some." 

"You got some?" 

Beatty blinked slowly. 

"No." Montag gazed beyond them to the wall with the typed lists of a million forbidden books. 

Their names leapt in fire, burning down the years under his axe and his hose which sprayed not 

water but kerosene. "No. " But in his mind, a cool wind started up and blew out of the ventilator 

grille at home, softly, softly, chilling his face. And, again, he saw himself in a green park talking 

to an old man, a very old man, and the wind from the park was cold, too. 

Montag hesitated, "Was-was it always like this? The firehouse, our work? I mean, well, once 

upon a time..." 

"Once upon a time!" Beatty said. "What kind of talk is THAT?" 

Fool, thought Montag to himself, you'll give it away. At the last fire, a book of fairy tales, he'd 

glanced at a single line. "I mean," he said, "in the old days, before homes were completely 

fireproofed " Suddenly it seemed a much younger voice was speaking for him. He opened his 

mouth and it was Clarisse McClellan saying, "Didn't firemen prevent fires rather than stoke them 

up and get them going?" 

"That's rich!" Stoneman and Black drew forth their rulebooks, which also contained brief 

histories of the Firemen of America, and laid them out where Montag, though long familiar with 

them, might read: 

"Established, 1790, to burn English-influenced books in the Colonies. First Fireman: Benjamin 

Franklin." 

RULE 1 . Answer the alarm swiftly. 

2. Start the fire swiftly. 

3. Burn everything. 

4. Report back to firehouse immediately. 

5. Stand alert for other alarms. 
Everyone watched Montag. He did not move. 
The alarm sounded. 

The bell in the ceiling kicked itself two hundred times. Suddenly there were four empty chairs. 

The cards fell in a flurry of snow. The brass pole shivered. The men were gone. 

Montag sat in his chair. Below, the orange dragon coughed into life. 

Montag slid down the pole like a man in a dream. 

The Mechanical Hound leapt up in its kennel, its eyes all green flame. 

"Montag, you forgot your helmet!" 

He seized it off the wall behind him, ran, leapt, and they were off, the night wind hammering 

about their siren scream and their mighty metal thunder ! 

It was a flaking three-storey house in the ancient part of the city, a century old if it was a day, but 

like all houses it had been given a thin fireproof plastic sheath many years ago, and this 

preservative shell seemed to be the only thing holding it in the sky. 

"Here we are !" 



The engine slammed to a stop. Beatty, Stoneman, and Black ran up the sidewalk, suddenly 

odious and fat in the plump fireproof slickers. Montag followed. 

They crashed the front door and grabbed at a woman, though she was not running, she was not 

trying to escape. She was only standing, weaving from side to side, her eyes fixed upon a 

nothingness in the wall as if they had struck her a terrible blow upon the head. Her tongue was 

moving in her mouth, and her eyes seemed to be trying to remember something, and then they 

remembered and her tongue moved again: 

" 'Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, 

as I trust shall never be put out.' " 

"Enough of that!" said Beatty. "Where are they?" 

He slapped her face with amazing objectivity and repeated the question. The old woman's eyes 

came to a focus upon Beatty. "You know where they are or you wouldn't be here," she said. 

Stoneman held out the telephone alarm card with the complaint signed in telephone duplicate on 

the back 

"Have reason to suspect attic; 11 No. Elm, City. — E. B." 

"That would be Mrs. Blake, my neighbour;" said the woman, reading the initials. 

"All right, men, let's get 'em!" 

Next thing they were up in musty blackness, swinging silver hatchets at doors that were, after all, 

unlocked, tumbling through like boys all rollick and shout. "Hey! " A fountain of books sprang 

down upon Montag as he climbed shuddering up the sheer stair-well. How inconvenient! Always 

before it had been like snuffing a candle. The police went first and adhesive-taped the victim's 

mouth and bandaged him off into their glittering beetle cars, so when you arrived you found an 

empty house. You weren't hurting anyone, you were hurting only things ! And since things really 

couldn't be hurt, since things felt nothing, and things don't scream or whimper, as this woman 

might begin to scream and cry out, there was nothing to tease your conscience later. You were 

simply cleaning up. Janitorial work, essentially. Everything to its proper place. Quick with the 

kerosene! Who's got a match! 

But now, tonight, someone had slipped. This woman was spoiling the ritual. The men were 

making too much noise, laughing, joking to cover her terrible accusing silence below. She made 

the empty rooms roar with accusation and shake down a fine dust of guilt that was sucked in 

their nostrils as they plunged about. It was neither cricket nor correct. Montag felt an immense 

irritation. She shouldn't be here, on top of everything! 

Books bombarded his shoulders, his arms, his upturned face A book alighted, almost obediently, 

like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim, wavering light, a page hung.open 

and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervour, 

Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed in his mind for the next minute as if 

stamped there with fiery steel. "Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine." He dropped 

the book. Immediately, another fell into his arms. 

"Montag, up here! " 

Montag's hand closed like a mouth, crushed the book with wild devotion, with an insanity of 

mindlessness to his chest. The men above were hurling shovelfuls of magazines into the dusty 

air. They fell like slaughtered birds and the woman stood below, like a small girl, among the 

bodies. 

Montag had done nothing. His hand had done it all, his hand, with a brain of its own, with a 

conscience and a curiosity in each trembling finger, had turned thief.. Now, it plunged the book 



back under his arm, pressed it tight to sweating armpit, rushed out empty, with a magician's 

flourish! Look here! Innocent! Look! 

He gazed, shaken, at that white hand. He held it way out, as if he were far-sighted. He held it 

close, as if he were blind. 

"Montag! " 

He jerked about. 

"Don't stand there, idiot!" 

The books lay like great mounds of fishes left to dry. The men danced and slipped and fell over 

them. Titles glittered their golden eyes, falling, gone. 

"Kerosene! They pumped the cold fluid from the numbered 451 tanks strapped to their shoulders. 

They coated each book, they pumped rooms full of it. 

They hurried downstairs, Montag staggered after them in the kerosene fumes. 

"Come on, woman!" 

The woman knelt among the books, touching the drenched leather and cardboard, reading the gilt 

titles with her fingers while her eyes accused Montag. 

"You can't ever have my books," she said. 

"You know the law," said Beatty. "Where's your common sense? None of those books agree with 

each other. You've been locked up here for years with a regular damned Tower of Babel. Snap 

out of it! The people in those books never lived. Come on now! " 

She shook her head. 

"The whole house is going up;" said Beatty, 

The men walked clumsily to the door. They glanced back at Montag, who stood near the woman. 

"You're not leaving her here?" he protested. 

"She won't come." 

"Force her, then!" 

Beatty raised his hand in which was concealed the igniter. "We're due back at the house. Besides, 

these fanatics always try suicide; the pattern's familiar." 

Montag placed his hand on the woman's elbow. "You can come with me." 

"No," she said. "Thank you, anyway." 

"I'm counting to ten," said Beatty. "One. Two." 

"Please," said Montag. 

"Go on," said the woman. 

"Three. Four." 

"Here." Montag pulled at the woman. 

The woman replied quietly, "I want to stay here" 

"Five. Six." 

"You can stop counting," she said. She opened the fingers of one hand slightly and in the palm of 

the hand was a single slender object. 

An ordinary kitchen match. 

The sight of it rushed the men out and down away from the house. Captain Beatty, keeping his 

dignity, backed slowly through the front door, his pink face burnt and shiny from a thousand 

fires and night excitements. God, thought Montag, how true! Always at night the alarm comes. 

Never by day! Is it because the fire is prettier by night? More spectacle, a better show? The pink 

face of Beatty now showed the faintest panic in the door. The woman's hand twitched on the 

single matchstick. The fumes of kerosene bloomed up about her. Montag felt the hidden book 

pound like a heart against his chest. 



"Go on," said the woman, and Montag felt himself back away and away out of the door, after 

Beatty, down the steps, across the lawn, where the path of kerosene lay like the track of some 

evil snail. 

On the front porch where she had come to weigh them quietly with her eyes, her quietness a 

condemnation, the woman stood motionless. 

Beatty flicked his fingers to spark the kerosene. 

He was too late. Montag gasped. 

The woman on the porch reached out with contempt for them all, and struck the kitchen match 

against the railing. 

People ran out of houses all down the street. 

They said nothing on their way back to the firehouse. Nobody looked at anyone else. Montag sat 

in the front seat with Beatty and Black. They did not even smoke their pipes. They sat there 

looking out of the front of the great salamander as they turned a corner and went silently on. 

"Master Ridley," said Montag at last. 

"What?" said Beatty. 

"She said, "Master Ridley.' She said some crazy thing when we came in the door. "Play the man,' 

she said, "Master Ridley.' Something, something, something." 

" "We shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put 

out,'" said Beatty. Stoneman glanced over at the Captain, as did Montag, startled. 

Beatty rubbed his chin. "A man named Latimer said that to a man named Nicholas Ridley, as 

they were being burnt alive at Oxford, for heresy, on October 16, 1555." 

Montag and Stoneman went back to looking at the street as it moved under the engine wheels. 

"I'm full of bits and pieces," said Beatty. "Most fire captains have to be. Sometimes I surprise 

myself. WATCH it, Stoneman ! " 

Stoneman braked the truck. 

"Damn!" said Beatty. "You've gone right by the comer where we turn for the firehouse." 

"Who is it?" 

"Who would it be?" said Montag, leaning back against the closed door in the dark. 

His wife said, at last, "Well, put on the light." 

"I don't want the light." 

"Come to bed." 

He heard her roll impatiently; the bedsprings squealed. 

"Are you drunk?" she said. 

So it was the hand that started it all. He felt one hand and then the other work his coat free and 

let it slump to the floor. He held his pants out into an abyss and let them fall into darkness. His 

hands had been infected, and soon it would be his arms. He could feel the poison working up his 

wrists and into his elbows and his shoulders, and then the jump-over from shoulder-blade to 

shoulder-blade like a spark leaping a gap. His hands were ravenous. And his eyes were 

beginning to feel hunger, as if they must look at something, anything, everything. 

His wife said, "What are you doing?" 

He balanced in space with the book in his sweating cold fingers. 

A minute later she said, "Well, just don't stand there in the middle of the floor." 

He made a small sound. 

"What?" she asked. 

He made more soft sounds. He stumbled towards the bed and shoved the book clumsily under 

the cold pillow. He fell into bed and his wife cried out, startled. He lay far across the room from 



her, on a winter island separated by an empty sea. She talked to him for what seemed a long 
while and she talked about this and she talked about that and it was only words, like the words he 
had heard once in a nursery at a friend's house, a two-year-old child building word patterns, 
talking jargon, making pretty sounds in the air. But Montag said nothing and after a long while 
when he only made the small sounds, he felt her move in the room and come to his bed and stand 
over him and put her hand down to feel his cheek. He knew that when she pulled her hand away 
from his face it was wet. 

Late in the night he looked over at Mildred. She was awake. There was a tiny dance of melody in 
the air, her Seashell was tamped in her ear again and she was listening to far people in far places, 
her eyes wide and staring at the fathoms of blackness above her in the ceiling. 
Wasn't there an old joke about the wife who talked so much on the telephone that her desperate 
husband ran out to the nearest store and telephoned her to ask what was for dinner? Well, then, 
why didn't he buy himself an audio-Seashell broadcasting station and talk to his wife late at 
night, murmur, whisper, shout, scream, yell? But what would he whisper, what would he yell? 
What could he say? 

And suddenly she was so strange he couldn't believe he knew her at all. He was in someone 
else's house, like those other jokes people told of the gentleman, drunk, coming home late at 
night, unlocking the wrong door, entering a wrong room, and bedding with a stranger and getting 
up early and going to work and neither of them the wiser. 
"Millie.... ?" he whispered. 
"What?" 

"I didn't mean to startle you. What I want to know is ...." 
"Well?" 

"When did we meet. And where?" 
"When did we meet for what?" she asked. 
"I mean-originally." 

He knew she must be frowning in the dark. 

He clarified it. "The first time we ever met, where was it, and when?" 
"Why, it was at --" 
She stopped. 
"I don't know," she said. 
He was cold. "Can't you remember?" 
"It's been so long." 
"Only ten years, that's all, only ten!" 

"Don't get excited, I'm trying to think." She laughed an odd little laugh that went up and up. 
"Funny, how funny, not to remember where or when you met your husband or wife." 
He lay massaging his eyes, his brow, and the back of his neck, slowly. He held both hands over 
his eyes and applied a steady pressure there as if to crush memory into place. It was suddenly 
more important than any other thing in a life-time that he knew where he had met Mildred. 
"It doesn't matter," She was up in the bathroom now, and he heard the water running, and the 
swallowing sound she made. 
"No, I guess not," he said. 

He tried to count how many times she swallowed and he thought of the visit from the two zinc- 
oxide-faced men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths and the electronic-eyed snake 
winding down into the layer upon layer of night and stone and stagnant spring water, and he 
wanted to call out to her, how many have you taken TONIGHT! the capsules! how many will 



you take later and not know? and so on, every hour! or maybe not tonight, tomorrow night! And 

me not sleeping, tonight or tomorrow night or any night for a long while; now that this has 

started. And he thought of her lying on the bed with the two technicians standing straight over 

her, not bent with concern, but only standing straight, arms folded. And he remembered thinking 

then that if she died, he was certain he wouldn't cry. For it would be the dying of an unknown, a 

street face, a newspaper image, and it was suddenly so very wrong that he had begun to cry, not 

at death but at the thought of not crying at death, a silly empty man near a silly empty woman, 

while the hungry snake made her still more empty. 

How do you get so empty? he wondered. Who takes it out of you? And that awful flower the 

other day, the dandelion! It had summed up everything, hadn't it? "What a shame! You're not in 

love with anyone ! " And why not? 

Well, wasn't there a wall between him and Mildred, when you came down to it? Literally not just 

one, wall but, so far, three! And expensive, too! And the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the 

nieces, the nephews, that lived in those walls, the gibbering pack of tree-apes that said nothing, 

nothing, nothing and said it loud, loud, loud. He had taken to calling them relatives from the very 

first. "How's Uncle Louis today?" "Who?" "And Aunt Maude?" The most significant memory he 

had of Mildred, really, was of a little girl in a forest without trees (how odd!) or rather a little girl 

lost on a plateau where there used to be trees (you could feel the memory of their shapes all 

about) sitting in the centre of the "living-room." The living-room; what a good job of labelling 

that was now. No matter when he came in, the walls were always talking to Mildred. 

"Something must be done!I" 

"Yes, something must be done!" 

"Well, let's not stand and talk!" 

"Let's do it! " 

"I'm so mad I could SPIT!" 

What was it all about? Mildred couldn't say. Who was mad at whom? Mildred didn't quite know. 

What were they going to do? Well, said Mildred, wait around and see. 

He had waited around to see. 

A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an 

immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, 

his eyes wobble in his head. He was a victim of concussion. When it was all over he felt like a 

man who had been thrown from a cliff, whirled in a centrifuge and spat out over a waterfall that 

fell and fell into emptiness and emptiness and never-quite-touched-bottom-never-never-quite-no 

not quite-touched-bottom ... and you fell so fast you didn't touch the sides either ... never ... quite 

. . . touched . anything. 

The thunder faded. The music died. 

"There," said Mildred, 

And it was indeed remarkable. Something had happened. Even though the people in the walls of 

the room had barely moved, and nothing had really been settled, you had the impression that 

someone had turned on a washing-machine or sucked you up in a gigantic vacuum. You drowned 

in music and pure cacophony. He came out of the room sweating and on the point of collapse. 

Behind him, Mildred sat in her chair and the voices went on again: 

"Well, everything will be all right now," said an "aunt." 

"Oh, don't be too sure," said a "cousin." 

"Now, don't get angry!" 

"Who's angry?" 



"YOU are ! " 

"You're mad!" 

"Why should I be mad!" 

"Because!" 

"That's all very well," cried Montag, "but what are they mad about? Who are these people? 

Who's that man and who's that woman? Are they husband and wife, are they divorced, engaged, 

what? Good God, nothing's connected up." 

"They--" said Mildred. "Well, they-they had this fight, you see. They certainly fight a lot. You 

should listen. I think they're married. Yes, they're married. Why?" 

And if it was not the three walls soon to be four walls and the dream complete, then it was the 

open car and Mildred driving a hundred miles an hour across town, he shouting at her and she 

shouting back and both trying to hear what was said, but hearing only the scream of the car. "At 

least keep it down to the minimum !" he yelled: "What?" she cried. "Keep it down to fifty- five, 

the minimum! " he shouted. "The what?" she shrieked. "Speed!" he shouted. And she pushed it 

up to one hundred and five miles an hour and tore the breath from his mouth. 

When they stepped out of the car, she had the Seashells stuffed in her ears. 

Silence. Onlv the wind blowing softlv. 

"Mildred." He stirred in bed. 

He reached over and pulled one of the tiny musical insects out of her ear. "Mildred. Mildred?" 

"Yes." Her voice was faint. 

He felt he was one of the creatures electronically inserted between the slots of the phono-colour 

walls, speaking, but the speech not piercing the crystal barrier. He could only pantomime, hoping 

she would turn his way and see him. They could not touch through the glass. 

'Mildred, do you know that girl I was telling you about?" 

'What girl?" She was almost asleep. 

'The girl next door." 

'What girl next door?" 

You know, the high-school girl. Clarisse, her name is." 

'Oh, yes," said his wife. 

'I haven't seen her for a few days-four days to be exact. Have you seen her?" 

'No." 

'I've meant to talk to you about her. Strange." 

'Oh, I know the one you mean." 

'I thought you would." 

'Her," said Mildred in the dark room. 

'What about her?" asked Montag. 

'I meant to tell you. Forgot. Forgot." 

'Tell me now. What is it?" 

'I think she's gone." 

'Gone?" 

'Whole family moved out somewhere. But she's gone for good. I think she's dead." 

'We couldn't be talking about the same girl." 

'No. The same girl. McClellan. McClellan, Run over by a car. Four days ago. I'm not sure. But I 

think she's dead. The family moved out anyway. I don't know. But I think she's dead." 

You're not sure of it! " 

'No, not sure. Pretty sure." 



"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" 

"Forgot." 

"Four days ago!" 

"I forgot all about it." 

"Four days ago," he said, quietly, lying there. 

They lay there in the dark room not moving, either of them. "Good night," she said. 

He heard a faint rustle. Her hands moved. The electric thimble moved like a praying mantis on 

the pillow, touched by her hand. Now it was in her ear again, humming. 

He listened and his wife was singing under her breath. 

Outside the house, a shadow moved, an autumn wind rose up and faded away But there was 

something else in the silence that he heard. It was like a breath exhaled upon the window. It was 

like a faint drift of greenish luminescent smoke, the motion of a single huge October leaf 

blowing across the lawn and away. 

The Hound, he thought. It's out there tonight. It's out there now. If I opened the window . . . 

He did not open the window. 

He had chills and fever in the morning. 

"You can't be sick," said Mildred. 

He closed his eyes over the hotness. "Yes." 

"But you were all right last night." 

"No, I wasn't all right " He heard the "relatives" shouting in the parlour. 

Mildred stood over his bed, curiously. He felt her there, he saw her without opening his eyes, her 

hair burnt by chemicals to a brittle straw, her eyes with a kind of cataract unseen but suspect far 

behind the pupils, the reddened pouting lips, the body as thin as a praying mantis from dieting, 

and her flesh like white bacon. He could remember her no other way. 

"Will you bring me aspirin and water?" 

"You've got to get up," she said. "It's noon. You've slept five hours later than usual." 

"Will you turn the parlour off?" he asked. 

"That's my family." 

"Will you turn it off for a sick man?" 

"I'll turn it down." 

She went out of the room and did nothing to the parlour and came back. "Is that better?" 

"Thanks." 

"That's my favourite programme," she said. 

"What about the aspirin?" 

"You've never been sick before." She went away again. 

"Well, I'm sick now. I'm not going to work tonight. Call Beatty for me." 

"You acted funny last night." She returned, humming. 

"Where's the aspirin?" He glanced at the water-glass she handed him. 

"Oh." She walked to the bathroom again. "Did something happen?" 

"Afire, is all." 

"I had a nice evening," she said, in the bathroom. 

"What doing?" 

"The parlour." 

"What was on?" 

"Programmes." 

"What programmes?" 



"Some of the best ever." 

"Who?". 

"Oh, you know, the bunch." 

"Yes, the bunch, the bunch, the bunch." He pressed at the pain in his eyes and suddenly the 

odour of kerosene made him vomit. 

Mildred came in, humming. She was surprised. "Why'd you do that?" 

He looked with dismay at the floor. "We burned an old woman with her books." 

"It's a good thing the rug's washable." She fetched a mop and worked on it. "I went to Helen's 

last night." 

"Couldn't you get the shows in your own parlour?" 

"Sure, but it's nice visiting." 

She went out into the parlour. He heard her singing. 

"Mildred?" he called. 

She returned, singing, snapping her fingers softly. 

"Aren't you going to ask me about last night?" he said. 

"What about it?" 

"We burned a thousand books. We burned a woman." 

"Well?" 

The parlour was exploding with sound. 

"We burned copies of Dante and Swift and Marcus Aurelius." 

"Wasn't he a European?" 

"Something like that." 

"Wasn't he a radical?" 

"I never read him." 

"He was a radical." Mildred fiddled with the telephone. "You don't expect me to call Captain 

Beatty, do you?" 

"You must! " 

"Don't shout!" 

"I wasn't shouting." He was up in bed, suddenly, enraged and flushed, shaking. The parlour 

roared in the hot air. "I can't call him. I can't tell him I'm sick." 

"Why?" 

Because you're afraid, he thought. A child feigning illness, afraid to call because after a 

moment's discussion, the conversation would run so: "Yes, Captain, I feel better already. I'll be 

in at ten o'clock tonight." 

"You're not sick," said Mildred. 

Montag fell back in bed. He reached under his pillow. The hidden book was still there. 

"Mildred, how would it be if, well, maybe, I quit my job awhile?" 

"You want to give up everything? After all these years of working, because, one night, some 

woman and her books--" 

"You should have seen her, Millie! " 

"She's nothing to me; she shouldn't have had books. It was her responsibility, she should have 

thought of that. I hate her. She's got you going and next thing you know we'll be out, no house, 

no job, nothing." 

"You weren't there, you didn't see," he said. "There must be something in books, things we can't 

imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don't 

stay for nothing." 



"She was simple-minded." 

"She was as rational as you and I, more so perhaps, and we burned her." 

"That's water under the bridge." 

"No, not water; fire. You ever seen a burned house? It smoulders for days. Well, this fire'll last 

me the rest of my life. God! I've been trying to put it out, in my mind, all night. I'm crazy with 

trying." 

"You should have thought of that before becoming a fireman." 

"Thought! " he said. "Was I given a choice? My grandfather and father were firemen. In my 

sleep, I ran after them." 

The parlour was playing a dance tune. 

"This is the day you go on the early shift," said Mildred. "You should have gone two hours ago. I 

just noticed." 

"It's not just the woman that died," said Montag. "Last night I thought about all the kerosene I've 

used in the past ten years. And I thought about books. And for the first time I realized that a man 

was behind each one of the books. A man had to think them up. A man had to take a long time to 

put them down on paper. And I'd never even thought that thought before." He got out of bed. 

"It took some man a lifetime maybe to put some of his thoughts down, looking around at the 

world and life, and then I came along in two minutes and boom! it's all over." 

"Let me alone," said Mildred. "I didn't do anything." 

"Let you alone! That's all very well, but how can I leave myself alone? We need not to be let 

alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really 

bothered? About something important, about something real?" 

And then he shut up, for he remembered last week and the two white stones staring up at the 

ceiling and the pump-snake with the probing eye and the two soap-faced men with the cigarettes 

moving in their mouths when they talked. But that was another Mildred, that was a Mildred so 

deep inside this one, and so bothered, really bothered, that the two women had never met. He 

turned away. 

Mildred said, "Well, now you've done it. Out front of the house. Look who's here.". 

"I don't care." 

"There's a Phoenix car just driven up and a man in a black shirt with an orange snake stitched on 

his arm coming up the front walk." 

"Captain Beauty?" he said, 

"Captain Beatty." 

Montag did not move, but stood looking into the cold whiteness of the wall immediately before 

him. 

"Go let him in, will you? Tell him I'm sick." 

"Tell him yourself! " She ran a few steps this way, a few steps that, and stopped, eyes wide, when 

the front door speaker called her name, softly, softly, Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone here, 

someone here, Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone's here. Fading. 

Montag made sure the book was well hidden behind the pillow, climbed slowly back into bed, 

arranged the covers over his knees and across his chest, half-sitting, and after a while Mildred 

moved and went out of the room and Captain Beatty strolled in, his hands in his pockets. 

"Shut the 'relatives' up," said Beatty, looking around at everything except Montag and his wife. 

This time, Mildred ran. The yammering voices stopped yelling in the parlour. 



Captain Beatty sat down in the most comfortable chair with a peaceful look on his ruddy face. 

He took time to prepare and light his brass pipe and puff out a great smoke cloud. "Just thought 

I'd come by and see how the sick man is." 

"How'd you guess?" 

Beatty smiled his smile which showed the candy pinkness of his gums and the tiny candy 

whiteness of his teeth. "I've seen it all. You were going to call for a night off." 

Montag sat in bed. 

"Well," said Beatty, "take the night off!" He examined his eternal matchbox, the lid of which 

said GUARANTEED: ONE MILLION LIGHTS IN THIS IGNITER, and began to strike the 

chemical match abstractedly, blow out, strike, blow out, strike, speak a few words, blow out. He 

looked at the flame. He blew, he looked at the smoke. "When will you be well?" 

"Tomorrow. The next day maybe. First of the week." 

Beatty puffed his pipe. "Every fireman, sooner or later, hits this. They only need understanding, 

to know how the wheels run. Need to know the history of our profession. They don't feed it to 

rookies like they used to. Damn shame." Puff. "Only fire chiefs remember it now." Puff. "I'll let 

you in on it." 

Mildred fidgeted. 

Beatty took a full minute to settle himself in and think back for what he wanted to say. 

"When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I'd 

say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. Even though our rule-book 

claims it was founded earlier. The fact is we didn't get along well until photography came into its 

own. Then—motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to 

have mass." 

Montag sat in bed, not moving. 

"And because they had mass, they became simpler," said Beatty. "Once, books appealed to a few 

people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But 

then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. 

Films and radios, magazines, books levelled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you 

follow me?" 

"I think so." 

Beatty peered at the smoke pattern he had put out on the air. "Picture it. Nineteenth-century man 

with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. 

Books cut shorter. Condensations, Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap 

ending." 

"Snap ending." Mildred nodded. 

"Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, 

winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The 

dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you 

know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumour of a title to you, Mrs. 

Montag) whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that 

claimed: 'now at least you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbours.' Do you see? 

Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there's your intellectual pattern for 

the past five centuries or more." 

Mildred arose and began to move around the room, picking things up and putting them down. 

Beatty ignored her and continued 



"Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click? Pic? Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, 
Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, 
Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a 
headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man's mind around about so fast under the 
pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters, that the centrifuge flings off all 
unnecessary, time-wasting thought!" 

Mildred smoothed the bedclothes. Montag felt his heart jump and jump again as she patted his 
pillow. Right now she was pulling at his shoulder to try to get him to move so she could take the 
pillow out and fix it nicely and put it back. And perhaps cry out and stare or simply reach down 
her hand and say, "What's this?" and hold up the hidden book with touching innocence. 
"School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and 
spelling gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job 
counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling 
switches, fitting nuts and bolts?" 
"Let me fix your pillow," said Mildred. 
"No! " whispered Montag, 

"The zipper displaces the button and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at. 
dawn, a philosophical hour, and thus a melancholy hour." 
Mildred said, "Here." 
"Get away," said Montag. 

"Life becomes one big pratfall, Montag; everything bang; boff, and wow!" 
"Wow," said Mildred, yanking at the pillow. 
"For God's sake, let me be!" cried Montag passionately. 
Beatty opened his eyes wide. 

Mildred's hand had frozen behind the pillow. Her fingers were tracing the book's outline and as 
the shape became familiar her face looked surprised and then stunned. Her mouth opened to ask 
a question . . . 

"Empty the theatres save for clowns and furnish the rooms with glass walls and pretty colours 
running up and down the walls like confetti or blood or sherry or sauterne. You like baseball, 
don't you, Montag?" 
"Baseball's a fine game." 

Now Beatty was almost invisible, a voice somewhere behind a screen of smoke 
"What's this?" asked Mildred, almost with delight. Montag heaved back against her arms. 
"What's this here?" 

"Sit down!" Montag shouted. She jumped away, her hands empty. "We're talking ! " 
Beatty went on as if nothing had happened. "You like bowling, don't you, Montag?" 
"Bowling, yes." 
"And golf?" 
"Golf is a fine game." 
"Basketball?" 
"A fine game.". 
"Billiards, pool? Football?" 
"Fine games, all of them." 

"More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun, and you don't have to think, eh? Organize and 
organize and superorganize super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind 
drinks less and less. Impatience. Highways full of crowds going somewhere, somewhere, 



somewhere, nowhere. The gasoline refugee. Towns turn into motels, people in nomadic surges 
from place to place, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept this 
noon and I the night before." 

Mildred went out of the room and slammed the door. The parlour "aunts" began to laugh at the 
parlour "uncles.", 

"Now let's take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more 
minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog?lovers, the cat?lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, 
chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second?generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, 
Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this 
play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics 
anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All 
the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock 
up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the 
damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. 
But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic ?books survive. And the 
three?dimensional sex?magazines, of course. There you have it, Montag. It didn't come from the 
Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! 
Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks 
to them, you can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics, the good old 
confessions, or trade ?journals." 

"Yes, but what about the firemen, then?" asked Montag. 

"Ah." Beatty leaned forward in the faint mist of smoke from his pipe. "What more easily 
explained and natural? With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, 
grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative 
creators, the word "intellectual, 1 of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always 
dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was 
exceptionally 'bright,' did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many 
leaden idols, hating him. And wasn't it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after 
hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the 
Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are 
happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book 
is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's 
mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well?read man? Me? I won't stomach them for 
a minute. And so when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world (you were 
correct in your assumption the other night) there was no longer need of firemen for the old 
purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our 
understandable and rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That's 
you, Montag, and that's me." 

The door to the parlour opened and Mildred stood there looking in at them, looking at Beatty and 
then at Montag. Behind her the walls of the room were flooded with green and yellow and 
orange fireworks sizzling and bursting to some music composed almost completely of 
trap?drums, tom?toms, and cymbals. Her mouth moved and she was saying something but the 
sound covered it. 

Beatty knocked his pipe into the palm of his pink hand, studied the ashes as if they were a 
symbol to be diagnosed and searched for meaning. 



"You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can't have our minorities upset and 
stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn't 
that right? Haven't you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren't they? 
Don't we keep them moving, don't we give them fun? That's all we live for, isn't it? For pleasure, 
for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these." 
"Yes." 

Montag could lip?read what Mildred was saying in the doorway. He tried not to look at her 
mouth, because then Beatty might turn and read what was there, too. 

"Coloured people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about 
Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The 
cigarette people are weeping? Bum the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight 
outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan? Eliminate them, too. 
Five minutes after a person is dead he's on his way to the Big Flue, the Incinerators serviced by 
helicopters all over the country. Ten minutes after death a man's a speck of black dust. Let's not 
quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn them all, burn everything. Fire is 
bright and fire is clean." 

The fireworks died in the parlour behind Mildred. She had stopped talking at the same time; a 
miraculous coincidence. Montag held his breath. 

"There was a girl next door," he said, slowly. "She's gone now, I think, dead. I can't even 
remember her face. But she was different. How?how did she happen?" 

Beatty smiled. "Here or there, that's bound to occur. Clarisse McClellan? We've a record on her 
family. We've watched them carefully. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can't rid 
yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try 
to do at school. That's why we've lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we're 
almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellans, when they 
lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; anti?social. The girl? She was 
a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I'm sure, from what I saw of her 
school record. She didn't want to know how a thing was done, but why. That can be 
embarrassing. You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep 
at it. The poor girl's better off dead." 
"Yes, dead." 

"Luckily, queer ones like her don't happen, often. We know how to nip most of them in the bud, 
early. You can't build a house without nails and wood. If you don't want a house built, hide the 
nails and wood. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a 
question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a 
thing as war. If the Government is inefficient, top?heavy, and tax?mad, better it be all those than 
that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the 
words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last 
year. Cram them full of non?combustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel 
stuffed, but absolutely "brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a 
sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. 
Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way 
lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most 
men can nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide ?rule, measure, and equate the 
universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I 
know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and 



magicians, your dare-devils, jet cars, motor?cycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of 

everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is 

hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a 

tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment." 

Beatty got up. "I must be going. Lecture's over. I hope I've clarified things. The important thing 

for you to remember, Montag, is we're the Happiness Boys, the Dixie Duo, you and I and the 

others. We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with 

conflicting theory and thought. We have our fingers in the dyke. Hold steady. Don't let the 

torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world. We depend on you. I don't think 

you realize how important you are, to our happy world as it stands now." 

Beatty shook Montag's limp hand. Montag still sat, as if the house were collapsing about him and 

he could not move, in the bed. Mildred had vanished from the door. 

"One last thing," said Beatty. "At least once in his career, every fireman gets an itch. What do the 

books say, he wonders. Oh, to scratch that itch, eh? Well, Montag, take my word for it, I've had 

to read a few in my time, to know what I was about, and the books say nothing! Nothing you can 

teach or believe. They're about non?existent people, figments of imagination, if they're fiction. 

And if they're non?fiction, it's worse, one professor calling another an idiot, one philosopher 

screaming down another's gullet. All of them running about, putting out the stars and 

extinguishing the sun. You come away lost." 

"Well, then, what if a fireman accidentally, really not, intending anything, takes a book home 

with him?" 

Montag twitched. The open door looked at him with its great vacant eye. 

"A natural error. Curiosity alone," said Beatty. "We don't get over?anxious or mad. We let the 

fireman keep the book twenty ?four hours. If he hasn't burned it by then, we simply come and 

burn it for him." 

"Of course." Montag's mouth was dry. 

"Well, Montag. Will you take another, later shift, today? Will we see you tonight perhaps?" 

"I don't know," said Montag. 

"What?" Beatty looked faintly surprised. 

Montag shut his eyes. "I'll be in later. Maybe." 

"We'd certainly miss you if you didn't show," said Beatty, putting his pipe in his pocket 

thoughtfully. 

I'll never come in again, thought Montag. 

"Get well and keep well," said Beatty. 

He turned and went out through the open door. 

Montag watched through the window as Beatty drove away in his gleaming 

yellow?flame?coloured beetle with the black, char?coloured tyres. 

Across the street and down the way the other houses stood with their flat fronts. What was it 

Clarisse had said one afternoon? "No front porches. My uncle says there used to be front 

porches. And people sat there sometimes at night, talking when they wanted to talk, rocking, and 

not talking when they didn't want to talk. Sometimes they just sat there and thought about things, 

turned things over. My uncle says the architects got rid of the front porches because they didn't 

look well. But my uncle says that was merely rationalizing it; the real reason, hidden underneath, 

might be they didn't want people sitting like that, doing nothing, rocking, talking; that was the 

wrong kind of social life. People talked too much. And they had time to think. So they ran off 

with the porches. And the gardens, too. Not many gardens any more to sit around in. And look at 



the furniture. No rocking?chairs any more. They're too comfortable. Get people up and running 
around. My uncle says . . . and . . . my uncle . . . and . . . my uncle ..." Her voice faded. 

Montag turned and looked at his wife, who sat in the middle of the parlour talking to an 

announcer, who in turn was talking to her. "Mrs. Montag," he was saying. This, that and the 

other. "Mrs. Montag?" Something else and still another. The converter attachment, which had 

cost them one hundred dollars, automatically supplied her name whenever the announcer 

addressed his anonymous audience, leaving a blank where the proper syllables could be filled in. 

A special spot?wavex?scrambler also caused his televised image, in the area immediately about 

his lips, to mouth the vowels and consonants beautifully. He was a friend, no doubt of it, a good 

friend. "Mrs. Montag?now look right here." 

Her head turned. Though she quite obviously was not listening. 

Montag said, "It's only a step from not going to work today to not working tomorrow, to not 

working at the firehouse ever again." , 

"You are going to work tonight, though, aren't you?" said Mildred. 

"I haven't decided. Right now I've got an awful feeling I want to smash things and kill things :' 

"Go take the beetle." 

"No thanks." 

"The keys to the beetle are on the night table. I always like to drive fast when I feel that way. 

You get it up around ninetyfive and you feel wonderful. Sometimes I drive all night and come 

back and you don't know it. It's fun out in the country. You hit rabbits, sometimes you hit dogs. 

Go take the beetle." 

"No, I don't want to, this time. I want to hold on to this funny thing. God, it's gotten big on me. I 

don't know what it is. I'm so damned unhappy, I'm so mad, and I don't know why I feel like I'm 

putting on weight. I feel fat. I feel like I've been saving up a lot of things, and don't know what. I 

might even start reading books." 

"They'd put you in jail, wouldn't they?" She looked at him as if he were behind the glass wall. 

He began to put on his clothes, moving restlessly about the bedroom. "Yes, and it might be a 

good idea. Before I hurt someone. Did you hear Beatty? Did you listen to him? He knows all the 

answers. He's right. Happiness is important. Fun is everything. And yet I kept sitting there saying 

to myself, I'm not happy, I'm not happy." 

"I am." Mildred's mouth beamed. "And proud of it." 

"I'm going to do something," said Montag. "I don't even know what yet, but I'm going to do 

something big." 

"I'm tired of listening to this junk," said Mildred, turning from him to the announcer again 

Montag touched the volume control in the wall and the announcer was speechless. 

"Millie?" He paused. "This is your house as well as mine. I feel it's only fair that I tell you 

something now. I should have told you before, but I wasn't even admitting it to myself. I have 

something I want you to see, something I've put away and hid during the past year, now and 

again, once in a while, I didn't know why, but I did it and I never told you." 

He took hold of a straight ?backed chair and moved it slowly and steadily into the hall near the 

front door and climbed up on it and stood for a moment like a statue on a pedestal, his wife 

standing under him, waiting. Then he reached up and pulled back the grille of the 

air?conditioning system and reached far back inside to the right and moved still another sliding 

sheet of metal and took out a book. Without looking at it he dropped it to the floor. He put his 

hand back up and took out two books and moved his hand down and dropped the two books to 



the floor. He kept moving his hand and dropping books, small ones, fairly large ones, yellow, 

red, green ones. When he was done he looked down upon some twenty books lying at his wife's 

feet. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't really think. But now it looks as if we're in this together." 

Mildred backed away as if she were suddenly confronted by a pack of mice that had come up out 

of the floor. He could hear her breathing rapidly and her face was paled out and her eyes were 

fastened wide. She said his name over, twice, three times. Then moaning, she ran forward, seized 

a book and ran toward the kitchen incinerator. 

He caught her, shrieking. He held her and she tried to fight away from him, scratching. 

"No, Millie, no! Wait! Stop it, will you? You don't know . . . stop it!" He slapped her face, he 

grabbed her again and shook her. 

She said his name and began to cry. 

"Millie! '" he said. "Listen. Give me a second, will you? We can't do anything. We can't burn 

these. I want to look at them, at least look at them once. Then if what the Captain says is true, 

we'll burn them together, believe me, we'll burn them together. You must help me." He looked 

down into her face and took hold of her chin and held her firmly. He was looking not only at her, 

but for himself and what he must do, in her face. "Whether we like this or not, we're in it. I've 

never asked for much from you in all these years, but I ask it now, I plead for it. We've got to 

start somewhere here, figuring out why we're in such a mess, you and the medicine at night, and 

the car, and me and my work. We're heading right for the cliff, Millie. God, I don't want to go 

over. This isn't going to be easy. We haven't anything to go on, but maybe we can piece it out 

and figure it and help each other. I need you so much right now, I can't tell you. If you love me at 

all you'll put up with this, twenty ?four, forty?eight hours, that's all I ask, then it'll be over. I 

promise, I swear! And if there is something here, just one little thing out of a whole mess of 

things, maybe we can pass it on to someone else." 

She wasn't fighting any more, so he let her go. She sagged away from him and slid down the 

wall, and sat on the floor looking at the books. Her foot touched one and she saw this and pulled 

her foot away. 

"That woman, the other night, Millie, you weren't there. You didn't see her face. And Clarisse. 

You never talked to her. I talked to her. And men like Beatty are afraid of her. I can't understand 

it. Why should they be so afraid of someone like her? But I kept putting her alongside the 

firemen in the house last night, and I suddenly realized I didn't like them at all, and I didn't like 

myself at all any more. And I thought maybe it would be best if the firemen themselves were 

burnt." 

"Guy! " 

The front door voice called softly: 

"Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone here, someone here, Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone 

here." 

Softly. 

They turned to stare at the door and the books toppled everywhere, everywhere in heaps. 

"Beatty!" said Mildred. 

"It can't be him." 

"He's come back!" she whispered. 

The front door voice called again softly. "Someone here ..." 

"We won't answer." Montag lay back against the wall and then slowly sank to a crouching 

position and began to nudge the books, bewilderedly, with his thumb, his forefinger. He was 



shivering and he wanted above all to shove the books up through the ventilator again, but he 

knew he could not face Beatty again. He crouched and then he sat and the voice of the front door 

spoke again, more insistently. Montag picked a single small volume from the floor. "Where do 

we begin?" He opened the book half?way and peered at it. "We begin by beginning, I guess." 

"He'll come in," said Mildred, "and burn us and the books!" 

The front door voice faded at last. There was a silence. Montag felt the presence of someone 

beyond the door, waiting, listening. Then the footsteps going away down the walk and over the 

lawn. 

"Let's see what this is," said Montag. 

He spoke the words haltingly and with a terrible selfconsciousness. He read a dozen pages here 

and there and came at last to this: 

" "It is computed that eleven thousand persons have at several times suffered death rather than 

submit to break eggs at the smaller end.'" 

Mildred sat across the hall from him. "What does it mean? It doesn't mean anything! The Captain 

was right! " 

"Here now," said Montag. "We'll start over again, at the beginning." 



PART II 

THE SIEVE AND THE SAND 

THEY read the long afternoon through, while the cold November rain fell from the sky upon the 

quiet house. They sat in the hall because the parlour was so empty and grey-looking without its 

walls lit with orange and yellow confetti and sky-rockets and women in gold-mesh dresses and 

men in black velvet pulling one-hundred-pound rabbits from silver hats. The parlour was dead 

and Mildred kept peering in at it with a blank expression as Montag paced the floor and came 

back and squatted down and read a page as many as ten times, aloud. 

" "We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by 

drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over, so in a series of kindnesses there is at last 

one which makes the heart run over.'" 

Montag sat listening to the rain. 

"Is that what it was in the girl next door? I've tried so hard to figure." 

"She's dead. Let's talk about someone alive, for goodness' sake." 

Montag did not look back at his wife as he went trembling along the hall to the kitchen, where he 

stood a long .time watching the rain hit the windows before he came back down the hall in the 

grey light, waiting for the tremble to subside. 

He opened another book. 

" "That favourite subject, Myself.'" 

He squinted at the wall. " "The favourite subject, Myself.'" 

"I understand that one," said Mildred. 

"But Clarisse's favourite subject wasn't herself. It was everyone else, and me. She was the first 

person in a good many years I've really liked. She was the first person I can remember who 

looked straight at me as if I counted." He lifted the two books. "These men have been dead a 

long time, but I know their words point, one way or another, to Clansse." 

Outside the front door, in the rain, a faint scratching. 

Montag froze. He saw Mildred thrust herself back to the wall and gasp. 



"I shut it off." 

"Someone—the door—why doesn't the door- voice tell us—" 

Under the door-sill, a slow, probing sniff, an exhalation of electric steam. 

Mildred laughed. "It's only a dog, that's what! You want me to shoo him away?" 

"Stay where you are!" 

Silence. The cold rain falling. And the smell of blue electricity blowing under the locked door. 

"Let's get back to work," said Montag quietly. 

Mildred kicked at a book. "Books aren't people. You read and I look around, but there isn't 

anybody!" 

He stared at the parlour that was dead and grey as the waters of an ocean that might teem with 

life if they switched on the electronic sun. 

"Now," said Mildred, "my "family' is people. They tell me things; I laugh, they laugh! And the 

colours ! " 

"Yes, I know." 

"And besides, if Captain Beatty knew about those books—" She thought about it. Her face grew 

amazed and then horrified. "He might come and bum the house and the "family.' That's awful! 

Think of our investment. Why should I read? What for?" 

"What for! Why!" said Montag. "I saw the damnedest snake in the world the other night. It was 

dead but it was alive. It could see but it couldn't see. You want to see that snake. It's at 

Emergency Hospital where they filed a report on all the junk the snake got out of you! Would 

you like to go and check their file? Maybe you'd look under Guy Montag or maybe under Fear or 

War. Would you like to go to that house that burnt last night? And rake ashes for the bones of the 

woman who set fire to her own house! What about Clarisse McClellan, where do we look for 

her? The morgue! Listen!" 

The bombers crossed the sky and crossed the sky over the house, gasping, murmuring, whistling 

like an immense, invisible fan, circling in emptiness. 

"Jesus God," said Montag. "Every hour so many damn things in the sky! How in hell did those 

bombers get up there every single second of our lives ! Why doesn't someone want to talk about 

it? We've started and won two atomic wars since 1960. Is it because we're having so much fun at 

home we've forgotten the world? Is it because we're so rich and the rest of the world's so poor 

and we just don't care if they are? I've heard rumours; the world is starving, but we're well-fed. Is 

it true, the world works hard and we play? Is that why we're hated so much? I've heard the 

rumours about hate, too, once in a long while, over the years. Do you know why? I don't, that's 

sure! Maybe the books can get us half out of the cave. They just might stop us from making the 

same damn insane mistakes ! I don't hear those idiot bastards in your parlour talking about it. 

God, Millie, don't you see? An hour a day, two hours, with these books, and maybe..." 

The telephone rang. Mildred snatched the phone. 

"Ann!" She laughed. "Yes, the White Clown's on tonight!" 

Montag walked to the kitchen and threw the book down. "Montag," he said, "you're really stupid. 

Where do we go from here? Do we turn the books in, forget it?" He opened the book to read over 

Mildred's laughter. 

Poor Millie, he thought. Poor Montag, it's mud to you, too. But where do you get help, where do 

you find a teacher this late? 

Hold on. He shut his eyes. Yes, of course. Again he found himself thinking of the green park a 

year ago. The thought had been with him many times recently, but now he remembered how it 



was that day in the city park when he had seen that old man in the black suit hide something, 

quickly in his coat . 

... The old man leapt up as if to run. And Montag said, "Wait ! " 

"I haven't done anything! " cried the old man trembling. 

"No one said you did." 

They had sat in the green soft light without saying a word for a moment, and then Montag talked 

about the weather, and then the old man responded with a pale voice. It was a strange quiet 

meeting. The old man admitted to being a retired English professor who had been thrown out 

upon the world forty years ago when the last liberal arts college shut for lack of students and 

patronage. His name was Faber, and when he finally lost his fear of Montag, he talked in a 

cadenced voice, looking at the sky and the trees and the green park, and when an hour had passed 

he said something to Montag and Montag sensed it was a rhymeless poem. Then the old man 

grew even more courageous and said something else and that was a poem, too. Faber held his 

hand over his left coat-pocket and spoke these words gently, and Montag knew if he reached out, 

he might pull a book of poetry from the man's coat. But he did not reach out. His. hands stayed 

on his knees, numbed and useless. "I don't talk things, sir," said Faber. "I talk the meaning of 

things. I sit here and know I'm alive." 

That was all there was to it, really. An hour of monologue, a poem, a comment, and then without 

even acknowledging the fact that Montag was a fireman, Faber with a certain trembling, wrote 

his address on a slip of paper. "For your file," he said, "in case you decide to be angry with me." 

"I'm not angry," Montag said, surprised. 

Mildred shrieked with laughter in the hall. 

Montag went to his bedroom closet and flipped through his file-wallet to the heading: FUTURE 

INVESTIGATIONS (?). Faber's name was there. He hadn't turned it in and he hadn't erased it. 

He dialled the call on a secondary phone. The phone on the far end of the line called Faber's 

name a dozen times before the professor answered in a faint voice. Montag identified himself 

and was met with a lengthy silence. "Yes, Mr. Montag?" 

"Professor Faber, I have a rather odd question to ask. How many copies of the Bible are left in 

this country?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about! " 

"I want to know if there are any copies left at all." 

"This is some sort of a trap! I can't talk to just anyone on the phone!" 

"How many copies of Shakespeare and Plato?" 

"None ! You know as well as I do. None!" 

Faber hung up. 

Montag put down the phone. None. A thing he knew of course from the firehouse listings. But 

somehow he had wanted to hear it from Faber himself. 

In the hall Mildred's face was suffused with excitement. "Well, the ladies are coming over!" 

Montag showed her a book. "This is the Old and New Testament, and-" 

"Don't start that again!" 

"It might be the last copy in this part of the world." 

"You've got to hand it back tonight, don't you know? Captain Beatty knows you've got it, doesn't 

he?" 

"I don't think he knows which book I stole. But how do I choose a substitute? Do I turn in Mr. 

Jefferson? Mr. Thoreau? Which is least valuable? If I pick a substitute and Beatty does know 

which book I stole, he'll guess we've an entire library here!" 



Mildred's mouth twitched. "See what you're doing? You'll ruin us! Who's more important, me or 

that Bible?" She was beginning to shriek now, sitting there like a wax doll melting in its own 

heat. 

He could hear Beatty's voice. "Sit down, Montag. Watch. Delicately, like the petals of a flower. 

Light the first page, light the second page. Each becomes a black butterfly. Beautiful, eh? Light 

the third page from the second and so on, chainsmoking, chapter by chapter, all the silly things 

the words mean, all the false promises, all the second-hand notions and time-worn philosophies." 

There sat Beatty, perspiring gently, the floor littered with swarms of black moths that had died in 

a single storm 

Mildred stopped screaming as quickly as she started. Montag was not listening. "There's only 

one thing to do," he said. "Some time before tonight when I give the book to Beatty, I've got to 

have a duplicate made. " 

"You'll be here for the White Clown tonight, and the ladies coming over?" cried Mildred. 

Montag stopped at the door, with his back turned. "Millie?" 

A silence "What?" 

"Millie? Does the White Clown love you?" 

No answer. 

"Millie, does--" He licked his lips. "Does your "family' love you, love you very much, love you 

with all their heart 

and soul, Millie?" 

He felt her blinking slowly at the back of his neck. 

"Why'd you ask a silly question like that?" 

He felt he wanted to cry, but nothing would happen to his eyes or his mouth. 

"If you see that dog outside," said Mildred, "give him a kick for me." 

He hesitated, listening at the door. He opened it and stepped out. 

The rain had stopped and the sun was setting in the clear sky. The street and the lawn and the 

porch were empty. He let his breath go in a great sigh. 

He slammed the door. 

He was on the subway. 

I'm numb, he thought. When did the numbness really begin in my face? In my body? The night I 

kicked the pill-bottle in the dark, like kicking a buried mine. 

The numbness will go away, he thought. It'll take time, but I'll do it, or Faber will do it for me. 

Someone somewhere will give me back the old face and the old hands the way they were. Even 

the smile, he thought, the old burnt-in smile, that's gone. I'm lost without it. 

The subway fled past him, cream-tile, jet-black, cream-tile, jet-black, numerals and darkness, 

more darkness and the total adding itself. 

Once as a child he had sat upon a yellow dune by the sea in the middle of the blue and hot 

summer day, trying to fill a sieve with sand, because some cruel cousin had said, "Fill this sieve 

and you'll get a dime!" "And the faster he poured, the faster it sifted through with a hot 

whispering. His hands were tired, the sand was boiling, the sieve was empty. Seated there in the 

midst of July, without a sound, he felt the tears move down his cheeks. 

Now as the vacuum-underground rushed him through the dead cellars of town, jolting him, he 

remembered the terrible logic of that sieve, and he looked down and saw that he was carrying the 

Bible open. There were people in the suction train but he held the book in his hands and the silly 

thought came to him, if you read fast and read all, maybe some of the sand will stay in the sieve. 

But he read and the words fell through, and he thought, in a few hours, there will be Beatty, and 



here will be me handing this over, so no phrase must escape me, each line must be memorized. I 
will myself to do it. 
He clenched the book in his fists. 
Trumpets blared. 
"Denham's Dentrifice." 

Shut up, thought Montag. Consider the lilies of the field. 
"Denham's Dentifrice." 
They toil not- 
"Denham's--" 

Consider the lilies of the field, shut up, shut up. 
"Dentifrice ! " 

He tore the book open and flicked the pages and felt them as if he were blind, he picked at the 
shape of the individual letters, not blinking. 
"Denham's. Spelled : D-E.N " 
They toil not, neither do they . . . 
A fierce whisper of hot sand through empty sieve. 
"Denham's does it!" 

Consider the lilies, the lilies, the lilies... 
"Denham's dental detergent." 

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" It was a plea, a cry so terrible that Montag found himself on his feet, 
the shocked inhabitants of the loud car staring, moving back from this man with the insane, 
gorged face, the gibbering, dry mouth, the flapping book in his fist. The people who had been 
sitting a moment before, tapping their feet to the rhythm of Denham's Dentifrice, Denham's 
Dandy Dental Detergent, Denham's Dentifrice Dentifrice Dentifrice, one two, one two three, one 
two, one two three. The people whose mouths had been faintly twitching the words Dentifrice 
Dentifrice Dentifrice. The train radio vomited upon Montag, in retaliation, a great ton-load of 
music made of tin, copper, silver, chromium, and brass. The people were pounded into 
submission; they did not run, there was no place to run; the great air-train fell down its shaft in 
the earth. 

"Lilies of the field." "Denham's." 
"Lilies, I said!" 
The people stared. 
"Call the guard." 
"The man's off--" 
"Knoll View!" 
The train hissed to its stop. 
"Knoll View! "Aery. 
"Denham's." A whisper. 
Montag's mouth barely moved. "Lilies..." 

The train door whistled open. Montag stood. The door gasped, started shut. Only then .did he 
leap past the other passengers, screaming in his mind, plunge through the slicing door only in 
time. He ran on the white tiles up through the tunnels, ignoring the escalators, because he wanted 
to feel his feet-move, arms swing, lungs clench, unclench, feel his throat go raw with air. A voice 
drifted after him, "Denham's Denham's Denham's," the train hissed like a snake. The train 
vanished in its hole. 
"Who is it?" 



"Montag out here." 

"What do you want?" 

"Let me in." 

"I haven't done anything 1" 

"I'm alone, dammit ! " 

"You swear it?" 

"I swear!" 

The front door opened slowly. Faber peered out, looking very old in the light and very fragile 

and very much afraid. The old man looked as if he had not been out of the house in years. He and 

the white plaster walls inside were much the same. There was white in the flesh of his mouth and 

his cheeks and his hair was white and his eyes had faded, with white in the vague blueness there. 

Then his eyes touched on the book under Montag's arm and he did not look so old any more and 

not quite as fragile. Slowly his fear went. 

"I'm sorry. One has to be careful." 

He looked at the book under Montag's arm and could not stop. "So it's true." 

Montag stepped inside. The door shut. 

"Sit down." Faber backed up, as if he feared the book might vanish if he took his eyes from it. 

Behind him, the door to a bedroom stood open, and in that room a litter of machinery and steel 

tools was strewn upon a desk-top. Montag had only a glimpse, before Faber, seeing Montag's 

attention diverted, turned quickly and shut the bedroom door and stood holding the knob with a 

trembling hand. His gaze returned unsteadily to Montag, who was now seated with the book in 

his lap. "The book-where did you-?" 

"I stole it." 

Faber, for the first time, raised his eyes and looked directly into Montag's face. "You're brave." 

"No," said Montag. "My wife's dying. A friend of mine's already dead. Someone who may have 

been a friend was burnt less than twenty-four hours ago. You're the only one I knew might help 

me. To see. To see. ." 

Faber's hands itched on his knees. "May I?" 

"Sorry." Montag gave him the book. 

"It's been a long time. I'm not a religious man. But it's been a long time." Faber turned the pages, 

stopping here and there to read. "It's as good as I remember. Lord, how they've changed it- in our 

"parlours' these days. Christ is one of the "family' now. I often wonder it God recognizes His own 

son the way we've dressed him up, or is it dressed him down? He's a regular peppermint stick 

now, all sugar-crystal and saccharine when he isn't making veiled references to certain 

commercial products that every worshipper absolutely needs." Faber sniffed the book. "Do you 

know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them 

when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go." Faber 

turned the pages. "Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a 

long time back. I said nothing. I'm one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when 

no one would listen to the "guilty, 1 but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself. And when 

finally they set the structure to burn the books, using the, firemen, I grunted a few times and 

subsided, for there were no others grunting or yelling with me, by then. Now, it's too late." Faber 

closed the Bible. "Well—suppose you tell me why you came here?" 

"Nobody listens any more. I can't talk to the walls because they're yelling at me. I can't talk to 

my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I 

talk long enough, it'll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read." 



Faber examined Montag's thin, blue-jowled face. "How did you get shaken up? What knocked 

the torch out of your hands?" 

"I don't know. We have everything we need to be happy, but we aren't happy. Something's 

missing. I looked around. The only thing I positively knew was gone was the books I'd burned in 

ten or twelve years. So I thought books might help." 

"You're a hopeless romantic," said Faber. "It would be funny if it were not serious. It's not books 

you need, it's some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the 

"parlour families' today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the 

radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it's not books at all you're looking for! Take it where 

you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in 

nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot 

of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is 

only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment 

for us. Of course you couldn't know this, of course you still can't understand what I mean when I 

say all this. You are intuitively right, that's what counts. Three things are missing. 

"Number one: Do you know why books such as this are so important? Because they have quality. 

And what does the word quality mean? To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has 

features. This book can go under the microscope. You'd find life under the glass, streaming past 

in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details of life per square inch 

you can get on a sheet of paper, the more Titerary' you are. That's my definition, anyway. Telling 

detail. Fresh detail. The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over 

her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies. 

"So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life. 

The comfortable people want only wax moon faces, poreless, hairless, expressionless. We are 

living in a time when flowers are trying to live on flowers, instead of growing on good rain and 

black loam. Even fireworks, for all their prettiness, come from the chemistry of the earth. Yet 

somehow we think we can grow, feeding on flowers and fireworks, without completing the cycle 

back to reality. Do you know the legend of Hercules and Antaeus, the giant wrestler, whose 

strength was incredible so long as he stood firmly on the earth. But when he was held, rootless, 

in mid-air, by Hercules, he perished easily. If there isn't something in that legend for us today, in 

this city, in our time, then I am completely insane. Well, there we have the first thing I said we 

needed. Quality, texture of information. " 

"And the second?" 

"Leisure." 

"Oh, but we've plenty of off-hours." 

"Off-hours, yes. But time to think? If you're not driving a hundred miles an hour, at a clip where 

you can't think of anything else but the danger, then you're playing some game or sitting in some 

room where you can't argue with the fourwall televisor. Why? The televisor is 'real.' It is 

immediate, it has dimension. It tells you what to think and blasts it in. It must be, right. It seems 

so right. It rushes you on so quickly to its own conclusions your mind hasn't time to protest, 

'What nonsense!'" 

"Only the 'family' is 'people.'" 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"My wife says books aren't 'real.'" 

"Thank God for that. You can shut them, say, 'Hold on a moment.' You play God to it. But who 

has ever torn himself from the claw that encloses you when you drop a seed in a TV parlour? It 



grows you any shape it wishes ! It is an environment as real as the world. It becomes and is the 

truth. Books can be beaten down with reason. But with all my knowledge and scepticism, I have 

never been able to argue with a one-hundred-piece symphony orchestra, full colour, three 

dimensions, and I being in and part of those incredible parlours. As you see, my parlour is 

nothing but four plaster walls. And here " He held out two small rubber plugs. "For my ears 

when I ride the subway-jets." 

"Denham's Dentifrice; they toil not, neither do they spin," said Montag, eyes shut. "Where do we 

go from here? Would books help us?" 

"Only if the third necessary thing could be given us. Number one, as I said, quality of 

information. Number two: leisure to digest it. And number three: the right to carry out actions 

based on what we learn from the inter-action of the first two. And I hardly think a very old man 

and a fireman turned sour could do much this late in the game..." 

"I can get books." 

"You're running a risk." 

"That's the good part of dying; when you've nothing to lose, you run any risk you want." 

"There, you've said an interesting thing," laughed Faber, "without having read it!" 

"Are things like that in books. But it came off the top of my mind!" 

"All the better. You didn't fancy it up for me or anyone, even yourself." 

Montag leaned forward. "This afternoon I thought that if it turned out that books were worth 

while, we might get a press and print some extra copies--" 

" We?" 

"You and I" 

"Oh, no ! " Faber sat up. 

"But let me tell you my plan—" 

"If you insist on telling me, I must ask you to leave." 

"But aren't you interested?" 

"Not if you start talking the sort of talk that might get me burnt for my trouble. The only way I 

could possibly listen to you would be if somehow the fireman structure itself could be burnt. 

Now if you suggest that we print extra books and arrange to have them hidden in firemen's 

houses all over the country, so that seeds of suspicion would be sown among these arsonists, 

bravo, I'd say!" 

"Plant the books, turn in an alarm, and see the firemen's houses bum, is that what you mean?" 

Faber raised his brows and looked at Montag as if he were seeing a new man. "I was joking." 

"If you thought it would be a plan worth trying, I'd have to take your word it would help." 

"You can't guarantee things like that! After all, when we had all the books we needed, we still 

insisted on finding the highest cliff to jump off. But we do need a breather. We do need 

knowledge. And perhaps in a thousand years we might pick smaller cliffs to jump off. The books 

are to remind us what asses and fools we are. They're Caesar's praetorian guard, whispering as 

the parade roars down the avenue, "Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal.' Most of us can't rush 

around, talking to everyone, know all the cities of the world, we haven't time, money or that 

many friends. The things you're looking for, Montag, are in the world, but the only way the 

average chap will ever see ninety-nine per cent of them is in a book. Don't ask for guarantees. 

And don't look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of 

saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were headed for shore." 

Faber got up and began to pace the room. 

"Well?" asked Montag. 



"You're absolutely serious?" 

"Absolutely." 

"It's an insidious plan, if I do say so myself." Faber glanced nervously at his bedroom door. "To 

see the firehouses burn across the land, destroyed as hotbeds of treason. The salamander devours 

his tail! Ho, God! " 

"I've a list of firemen's residences everywhere. With some sort of underground " 

"Can't trust people, that's the dirty part. You and I and who else will set the fires?" 

"Aren't there professors like yourself, former writers, historians, linguists . . .?" 

"Dead or ancient." 

"The older the better; they'll go unnoticed. You know dozens, admit it ! " 

"Oh, there are many actors alone who haven't acted Pirandello or Shaw or Shakespeare for years 

because their plays are too aware of the world. We could use their anger. And we could use the 

honest rage of those historians who haven't written a line for forty years. True, we might form 

classes in thinking and reading." 

"Yes! " 

"But that would just nibble the edges. The whole culture's shot through. The skeleton needs 

melting and re-shaping. Good God, it isn't as simple as just picking up a book you laid down half 

a century ago. Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary. The public itself stopped reading of 

its own accord. You firemen provide a circus now and then at which buildings are set off and 

crowds gather for the pretty blaze, but it's a small sideshow indeed, and hardly necessary to keep 

things in line. So few want to be rebels any more. And out of those few, most, like myself, scare 

easily. Can you dance faster than the White Clown, shout louder than "Mr. Gimmick' and the 

parlour "families'? If you can, you'll win your way, Montag. In any event, you're a fool. People 

are having fun" 

"Committing suicide! Murdering!" 

A bomber flight had been moving east all the time they talked, and only now did the two men 

stop and listen, feeling the great jet sound tremble inside themselves. 

"Patience, Montag. Let the war turn off the "families.' Our civilization is flinging itself to pieces. 

Stand back from the centrifuge." 

"There has to be someone ready when it blows up." 

"What? Men quoting Milton? Saying, I remember Sophocles? Reminding the survivors that man 

has his good side, too? They will only gather up their stones to hurl at each other. Montag, go 

home. Go to bed. Why waste your final hours racing about your cage denying you're a squirrel?" 

"Then you don't care any more?" 

"I care so much I'm sick." 

"And you won't help me?" 

"Good night, good night." 

Montag's hands picked up the Bible. He saw what his hands had done and he looked surprised. 

"Would you like to own this?" 

Faber said, "I'd give my right arm." 

Montag stood there and waited for the next thing to happen. His hands, by themselves, like two 

men working together, began to rip the pages from the book. The hands tore the flyleaf and then 

the first and then the second page. 

"Idiot, what're you doing!" Faber sprang up, as if he had been struck. He fell, against Montag. 

Montag warded him off and let his hands continue. Six more pages fell to the floor. He picked 

them up and wadded the paper under Faber's gaze. 



"Don't, oh, don't ! " said the old man. 

"Who can stop me? I'm a fireman. I can bum you! " 

The old man stood looking at him. "You wouldn't." 

"I could ! " 

"The book. Don't tear it any more." Faber sank into a chair, his face very white, his mouth 

trembling. "Don't make me feel any more tired. What do you want?" 

"I need you to teach me." 

"All right, all right." 

Montag put the book down. He began to unwad the crumpled paper and flatten it out as the old 

man watched tiredly. 

Faber shook his head as if he were waking up. 

"Montag, have you some money?" 

"Some. Four, five hundred dollars. Why?" 

"Bring it. I know a man who printed our college paper half a century ago. That was the year I 

came to class at the start of the new semester and found only one student to sign up for Drama 

from Aeschylus to O'Neill. You see? How like a beautiful statue of ice it was, melting in the sun. 

I remember the newspapers dying like huge moths. No one wanted them back. No one missed 

them. And the Government, seeing how advantageous it was to have people reading only about 

passionate lips and the fist in the stomach, circled the situation with your fire-eaters. So, Montag, 

there's this unemployed printer. We might start a few books, and wait on the war to break the 

pattern and give us the push we need. A few bombs and the "families' in the walls of all the 

houses, like harlequin rats, will shut up! In silence, our stage-whisper might carry." 

They both stood looking at the book on the table. 

"I've tried to remember," said Montag. "But, hell, it's gone when I turn my head. God, how I 

want something to say to the Captain. He's read enough so he has all the answers, or seems to 

have. His voice is like butter. I'm afraid he'll talk me back the way I was. Only a week ago, 

pumping a kerosene hose, I thought: God, what fun!" 

The old man nodded. "Those who don't build must burn. It's as old as history and juvenile 

delinquents." 

"So that's what I am." 

"There's some of it in all of us." 

Montag moved towards the front door. "Can you help me in any way tonight, with the Fire 

Captain? I need an umbrella to keep off the rain. I'm so damned afraid I'll drown if he gets me 

again. " 

The old man said nothing, but glanced once more nervously, at his bedroom. Montag caught the 

glance. "Well?" 

The old man took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. He took another, eyes closed, his mouth 

tight, and at last exhaled. "Montag..." 

The old man turned at last and said, "Come along. I would actually have let you walk right out of 

my house. I am a cowardly old fool." 

Faber opened the bedroom door and led Montag into a small chamber where stood a table upon 

which a number of metal tools lay among a welter of microscopic wire-hairs, tiny coils, bobbins, 

and crystals. 

"What's this?" asked Montag. 

"Proof of my terrible cowardice. I've lived alone so many years, throwing images on walls with 

my imagination. Fiddling with electronics, radio-transmission, has been my hobby. My 



cowardice is of such a passion, complementing the revolutionary spirit that lives in its shadow, I 

was forced to design this." 

He picked up a small green-metal object no larger than a .22 bullet. 

"I paid for all this-how? Playing the stock-market, of course, the last refuge in the world for the 

dangerous intellectual out of a job. Well, I played the market and built all this and I've waited. 

I've waited, trembling, half a lifetime for someone to speak to me. I dared speak to no one. That 

day in the park when we sat together, I knew that some day you might drop by, with fire or 

friendship, it was hard to guess. I've had this little item ready for months. But I almost let you go, 

I'm that afraid!" 

"It looks like a Seashell radio." 

"And something more! It listens! If you put it in your ear, Montag, I can sit comfortably home, 

warming my frightened bones, and hear and analyse the firemen's world, find its weaknesses, 

without danger. I'm the Queen Bee, safe in the hive. You will be the drone, the travelling ear. 

Eventually, I could put out ears into all parts of the city, with various men, listening and 

evaluating. If the drones die, I'm still safe at home, tending my fright with a maximum of 

comfort and a minimum of chance. See how safe I play it, how contemptible I am?" 

Montag placed the green bullet in his ear. The old man inserted a similar object in his own ear 

and moved his lips. 

"Montag! " 

The voice was in Montag's head. 

"I hear you!" 

The old man laughed. "You're coming over fine, too!" Faber whispered, but the voice in 

Montag's head was clear. "Go to the firehouse when it's time. I'll be with you. Let's listen to this 

Captain Beatty together. He could be one of us. God knows. I'll give you things to say. We'll 

give him a good show. Do you hate me for this electronic cowardice of mine? Here I am sending 

you out into the night, while I stay behind the lines with my damned ears listening for you to get 

your head chopped off." 

"We all do what we do," said Montag. He put the Bible in the old man's hands. "Here. I'll chance 

turning in a substitute. Tomorrow--" 

"I'll see the unemployed printer, yes; that much I can do." 

"Good night, Professor." 

"Not good night. I'll be with you the rest of the night, a vinegar gnat tickling your ear when you 

need me. But good night and good luck, anyway. " 

The door opened and shut. Montag was in the dark street again, looking at the world. 

You could feel the war getting ready in the sky that night. The way the clouds moved aside and 

came back, and the way the stars looked, a million of them swimming between the clouds, like 

the enemy discs, and the feeling that the sky might fall upon the city and turn it to chalk dust, and 

the moon go up in red fire; that was how the night felt. 

Montag walked from the subway with the money in his pocket (he had visited the bank which 

was open all night and every night with robot tellers in attendance) and as he walked he was 

listening to the Seashell radio in one car... "We have mobilized a million men. Quick victory is 

ours if the war comes .. .." Music flooded over the voice quickly and it was gone. 

"Ten million men mobilized," Faber's voice whispered in his other ear. "But say one million. It's 

happier." 

"Faber?" 

"Yes?" 



"I'm not thinking. I'm just doing like I'm told, like always. You said get the money and I got it. I 

didn't really think of it myself. When do I start working things out on my own?" 

"You've started already, by saying what you just said. You'll have to take me on faith." 

"I took the others on faith ! " 

"Yes, and look where we're headed. You'll have to travel blind for a while. Here's my arm to 

hold on to." 

"I don't want to change sides and just be told what to do. There's no reason to change if I do 

that." 

"You're wise already!" 

Montag felt his feet moving him on the sidewalk.toward his house. "Keep talking." 

"Would you like me to read? I'll read so you can remember. I go to bed only five hours a night. 

Nothing to do. So if you like; I'll read you to sleep nights. They say you retain knowledge even 

when you're sleeping, if someone whispers it in your ear." 

"Yes." 

"Here." Far away across town in the night, the faintest whisper of a turned page. "The Book of 

Job." 

The moon rose in the sky as Montag walked, his lips moving just a trifle. 

He was eating a light supper at nine in the evening when the front door cried out in the hall and 

Mildred ran from the parlour like a native fleeing an eruption of Vesuvius. Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. 

Bowles came through the front door and vanished into the volcano's mouth with martinis in their 

hands: Montag stopped eating. They were like a monstrous crystal chandelier tinkling in a 

thousand chimes, he saw their Cheshire Cat smiles burning through the walls of the house, and 

now they were screaming at each other above the din. Montag found himself at the parlour door 

with his food still in his mouth. 

"Doesn't everyone look nice!" 

"Nice." 

"You look fine, Millie! " 

"Fine." 

"Everyone looks swell." 

"Swell! 

"Montag stood watching them. 

"Patience," whispered Faber. 

"I shouldn't be here," whispered Montag, almost to himself. "I should be on my way back to you 

with the money!" "Tomorrow's time enough. Careful!" 

"Isn't this show wonderful?" cried Mildred. "Wonderful!" 

On one wall a woman smiled and drank orange juice simultaneously. How does she do both at 

once, thought Montag, insanely. In the other walls an X-ray of the same woman revealed the 

contracting journey of the refreshing beverage on its way to her delightful stomach! Abruptly the 

room took off on a rocket flight into the clouds, it plunged into a lime-green sea where blue fish 

ate red and yellow fish. A minute later, Three White Cartoon Clowns chopped off each other's 

limbs to the accompaniment of immense incoming tides of laughter. Two minutes more and the 

room whipped out of town to the jet cars wildly circling an arena, bashing and backing up and 

bashing each other again. Montag saw a number of bodies fly in the air. 

"Millie, did you see that?" 

"I saw it, I saw it! " 



Montag reached inside the parlour wall and pulled the main switch. The images drained away, as 

if the water had been let out from a gigantic crystal bowl of hysterical fish. 

The three women turned slowly and looked with unconcealed irritation and then dislike at 

Montag. 

"When do you suppose the war will start?" he said. "I notice your husbands aren't here tonight?" 

"Oh, they come and go, come and go," said Mrs. Phelps. "In again out again Finnegan, the Army 

called Pete yesterday. He'll be back next week. The Army said so. Quick war. Forty-eight hours 

they said, and everyone home. That's what the Army said. Quick war. Pete was called yesterday 

and they said he'd be, back next week. Quick..." 

The three women fidgeted and looked nervously at the empty mud-coloured walls. 

"I'm not worried," said Mrs. Phelps. "I'll let Pete do all the worrying." She giggled. "I'll let old 

Pete do all the worrying. Not me. I'm not worried. " 

"Yes," said Millie. "Let old Pete do the worrying." 

"It's always someone else's husband dies, they say." 

"I've heard that, too. I've never known any dead man killed in a war. Killed jumping off 

buildings, yes, like Gloria's husband last week, but from wars? No." 

"Not from wars," said Mrs. Phelps. "Anyway, Pete and I always said, no tears, nothing like that. 

It's our third marriage each and we're independent. Be independent, we always said. He said, if I 

get killed off, you just go right ahead and don't cry, but get married again, and don't think of me." 

"That reminds me," said Mildred. "Did you see that Clara Dove five-minute romance last night 

in your wall? Well, it was all about this woman who--" 

Montag said nothing but stood looking at the women's faces as he had once looked at the faces of 

saints in a strange church he had entered when he was a child. The faces of those enamelled 

creatures meant nothing to him, though he talked to them and stood in that church for a long 

time, trying to be of that religion, trying to know what that religion was, trying to get enough of 

the raw incense and special dust of the place into his lungs and thus into his blood to feel touched 

and concerned by the meaning of the colourful men and women with the porcelain eyes and the 

blood-ruby lips. But there was nothing, nothing; it was a stroll through another store, and his 

currency strange and unusable there, and his passion cold, even when he touched the wood and 

plaster and clay. So it was now, in his own parlour, with these women twisting in their chairs 

under his gaze, lighting cigarettes, blowing smoke, touching their sun-fired hair and examining 

their blazing fingernails as if they had caught fire from his look. Their faces grew haunted with 

silence. They leaned forward at the sound of Montag's swallowing his final bite of food. They 

listened to his feverish breathing. The three empty walls of the room were like the pale brows of 

sleeping giants now, empty of dreams. Montag felt that if you touched these three staring brows 

you would feel a fine salt sweat on your finger-tips. The perspiration gathered with the silence 

and the sub-audible trembling around and about and in the women who were burning with 

tension. Any moment they might hiss a long sputtering hiss and explode. 

Montag moved his lips. 

"Let's talk." 

The women jerked and stared. 

"How're your children, Mrs. Phelps?" he asked. 

"You know I haven't any! No one in his right mind, the Good Lord knows; would have 

children!" said Mrs. Phelps, not quite sure why she was angry with this man. 

"I wouldn't say that," said Mrs. Bowles. "I've had two children by Caesarian section. No use 

going through all that agony for a baby. The world must reproduce, you know, the race must go 



on. Besides, they sometimes look just like you, and that's nice. Two Caesarians tamed the trick, 

yes, sir. Oh, my doctor said, Caesarians aren't necessary; you've got the, hips for it, everything's 

normal, but I insisted." 

"Caesarians or not, children are ruinous; you're out of your mind," said Mrs. Phelps. 

"I plunk the children in school nine days out of ten. I put up with them when they come home 

three days a month; it's not bad at all. You heave them into the 'parlour' and turn the switch. It's 

like washing clothes; stuff laundry in and slam the lid." Mrs. Bowles tittered. "They'd just as 

soon kick as kiss me. Thank God, I can kick back! " 

The women showed their tongues, laughing. 

Mildred sat a moment and then, seeing that Montag was still in the doorway, clapped her hands. 

"Let's talk politics, to please Guy!" 

"Sounds fine," said Mrs. Bowles. "I voted last election, same as everyone, and I laid it on the line 

for President Noble. I think he's one of the nicest-looking men who ever became president." 

"Oh, but the man they ran against him!" 

"He wasn't much, was he? Kind of small and homely and he didn't shave too close or comb his 

hair very well. " 

"What possessed the 'Outs' to run him? You just don't go running a little short man like that 

against a tall man. Besides -he mumbled. Half the time I couldn't hear a word he said. And the 

words I did hear I didn't understand!" 

"Fat, too, and didn't dress to hide it. No wonder the landslide was for Winston Noble. Even their 

names helped. Compare Winston Noble to Hubert Hoag for ten seconds and you can almost 

figure the results." 

"Damn it!" cried Montag. "What do you know about Hoag and Noble?" 

"Why, they were right in that parlour wall, not six months ago. One was always picking his nose; 

it drove me wild. " 

"Well, Mr. Montag," said Mrs. Phelps, "do you want us to vote for a man like that?" 

Mildred beamed. "You just run away from the door, Guy, and don't make us nervous." 

But Montag was gone and back in a moment with a book in his hand. 

"Guy!" 

"Damn it all, damn it all, damn it!" 

"What've you got there; isn't that a book? I thought that all special training these days was done 

by film." Mrs. Phelps blinked. "You reading up on fireman theory?" 

"Theory, hell," said Montag. "It's poetry." 

"Montag." A whisper. 

"Leave me alone! " Montag felt himself turning in a great circling roar and buzz and hum. 

"Montag, hold on, don't..." 

"Did you hear them, did you hear these monsters talking about monsters? Oh God, the way they 

jabber about people and their own children and themselves and the way they talk about their 

husbands and the way they talk about war, dammit, I stand here and I can't believe it!" 

"I didn't say a single word about any war, I'll have you know," said Mrs, Phelps. 

"As for poetry, I hate it," said Mrs. Bowles. 

"Have you ever read any?" 

"Montag," Faber's voice scraped away at him. "You'll ruin everything. Shut up, you fool!" 

"All three women were on their feet. 

"Sit down!" 

They sat. 



"I'm going home," quavered Mrs. Bowles. 

"Montag, Montag, please, in the name of God, what are you up to?" pleaded Faber. 

"Why don't you just read us one of those poems from your little book," Mrs. Phelps nodded. "I 

think that'd he very interesting." 

"That's not right," wailed Mrs. Bowles. "We can't do that!" 

"Well, look at Mr. Montag, he wants to, I know he does. And if we listen nice, Mr. Montag will 

be happy and then maybe we can go on and do something else." She glanced nervously at the 

long emptiness of the walls enclosing them. 

"Montag, go through with this and I'll cut off, I'll leave." The beetle jabbed his ear. "What good 

is this, what'll you prove?" 

"Scare hell out of them, that's what, scare the living daylights out!" 

Mildred looked at the empty air. "Now Guy, just who are you talking to?" 

A silver needle pierced his brain. "Montag, listen, only one way out, play it as a joke, cover up, 

pretend you aren't mad at all. Then-walk to your wall-incinerator, and throw the book in!" 

Mildred had already anticipated this in a quavery voice. "Ladies, once a year, every fireman's 

allowed to bring one book home, from the old days, to show his family how silly it all was, how 

nervous that sort of thing can make you, how crazy. Guy's surprise tonight is to read you one 

sample to show how mixed-up things were, so none of us will ever have to bother our little old 

heads about that junk again, isn't that right, darling?" 

He crushed the book in his fists. "Say "yes."' 

His mouth moved like Faber's. 

"Yes." 

Mildred snatched the book with a laugh. "Here! Read this one. No, I take it back. Here's that real 

funny one you read out loud today. Ladies, you won't understand a word. It goes umpty-tumpty- 

ump. Go ahead, Guy, that page, dear." 

He looked at the opened page. 

A fly stirred its wings softly in his ear. "Read." 

"What's the title, dear?" 

"Dover Beach." His mouth was numb. 

"Now read in a nice clear voice and go slow." 

The room was blazing hot, he was all fire, he was all coldness; they sat in the middle of an empty 

desert with three chairs and him standing, swaying, and him waiting for Mrs. Phelps to stop 

straightening her dress hem and Mrs. Bowles to take her fingers away from her hair. Then he 

began to read in a low, stumbling voice that grew firmer as he progressed from line to line, and 

his voice went out across the desert, into the whiteness, and around the three sitting women there 

in the great hot emptiness: 

"The Sea of Faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. 

But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night- wind, down the vast edges drear 

And naked shingles of the world.'" 

The chairs creaked under the three women. Montag finished it out: 

"Ah, love, let us be true 



To one another! for the world, which seems 

To lie before us like a land of dreams, 

So various, so beautiful, so new, 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, 

Where ignorant armies clash by night.'" 

Mrs. Phelps was crying. 

The others in the middle of the desert watched her crying grow very loud as her face squeezed 

itself out of shape. They sat, not touching her, bewildered by her display. She sobbed 

uncontrollably. Montag himself was stunned and shaken. 

"Sh, sh," said Mildred. "You're all right, Clara, now, Clara, snap out of it! Clara, what's wrong?" 

"I-I,", sobbed Mrs. Phelps, "don't know, don't know, I just don't know, oh oh..." 

Mrs. Bowles stood up and glared at Montag. "You see? I knew it, that's what I wanted to prove! I 

knew it would happen! I've always said, poetry and tears, poetry and suicide and crying and 

awful feelings, poetry and sickness; all that mush! Now I've had it proved to me. You're nasty, 

Mr. Montag, you're nasty! " 

Faber said, "Now..." 

Montag felt himself turn and walk to the wall-slot and drop the book in through the brass notch 

to the waiting flames. 

"Silly words, silly words, silly awful hurting words," said Mrs. Bowles. "Why do people want to 

hurt people? Not enough hurt in the world, you've got to tease people with stuff like that ! " 

"Clara, now, Clara," begged Mildred, pulling her arm. "Come on, let's be cheery, you turn the 

"family' on, now. Go ahead. Let's laugh and be happy, now, stop crying, we'll have a party!" 

"No," said Mrs. Bowles. "I'm trotting right straight home. You want to visit my house and 

"family,' well and good. But I won't come in this fireman's crazy house again in my lifetime! " 

"Go home." Montag fixed his eyes upon her, quietly. "Go home and think of your first husband 

divorced and your second husband killed in a jet and your third husband blowing his brains out, 

go home and think of the dozen abortions you've had, go home and think of that and your damn 

Caesarian sections, too, and your children who hate your guts! Go home and think how it all 

happened and what did you ever do to stop it? Go home, go home!" he yelled. "Before I knock 

you down and kick you out of the door!" 

Doors slammed and the house was empty. Montag stood alone in the winter weather, with the 

parlour walls the colour of dirty snow. 

In the bathroom, water ran. He heard Mildred shake the sleeping tablets into her hand. 

"Fool, Montag, fool, fool, oh God you silly fool..." 

"Shut up!" He pulled the green bullet from his ear and jammed it into his pocket. 

It sizzled faintly. "... fool . . . fool ..." 

He searched the house and found the books where Mildred had stacked them behind the 

refrigerator. Some were missing and he knew that she had started on her own slow process of 

dispersing the dynamite in her house, stick by stick. But he was not angry now, only exhausted 

and bewildered with himself. He carried the books into the backyard and hid them in the bushes 

near the alley fence. For tonight only, he thought, in case she decides to do any more burning. 

He went back through the house. "Mildred?" He called at the door of the darkened bedroom. 

There was no sound. 



Outside, crossing the lawn, on his way to work, he tried not to see how completely dark and 
deserted Clarisse McClellan's house was .... 

On the way downtown he was so completely alone with his terrible error that he felt the 
necessity for the strange warmness and goodness that came from a familiar and gentle voice 
speaking in the night. Already, in a few short hours, it seemed that he had known Faber a 
lifetime. Now he knew that he was two people, that he was above all Montag, who knew 
nothing, who did not even know himself a fool, but only suspected it. And he knew that he was 
also the old man who talked to him and talked to him as the train was sucked from one end of the 
night city to the other on one long sickening gasp of motion. In the days to follow, and in the 
nights when there was no moon and in the nights when there was a very bright moon shining on 
the earth, the old man would go on with this talking and this talking, drop by drop, stone by 
stone, flake by flake. His mind would well over at last and he would not be Montag any more, 
this the old man told him, assured him, promised him. He would be Montag-plus-Faber, fire plus 
water, and then, one day, after everything had mixed and simmered and worked away in silence, 
there would be neither fire nor water, but wine. Out of two separate and opposite things, a third. 
And one day he would look back upon the fool and know the fool. Even now he could feel the 
start of the long journey, the leave-taking, the going away from the self he had been. 
It was good listening to the beetle hum, the sleepy mosquito buzz and delicate filigree murmur of 
the old man's voice at first scolding him and then consoling him in the late hour of night as he 
emerged from the steaming subway toward the firehouse world. 

"Pity, Montag, pity. Don't haggle and nag them; you were so recently one o f them yourself. 
They are so confident that they will run on for ever. But they won't run on. They don't know that 
this is all one huge big blazing meteor that makes a pretty fire in space, but that some day it'll 
have to hit. They see only the blaze, the pretty fire, as you saw it. 

"Montag, old men who stay at home, afraid, tending their peanut-brittle bones, have no right to 
criticize. Yet you almost killed things at the start. Watch it! I'm with you, remember that. I 
understand how it happened. I must admit that your blind raging invigorated me. God, how 
young I felt! But now-I want you to feel old, I want a little of my cowardice to be distilled in you 
tonight. The next few hours, when you see Captain Beatty, tiptoe round him, let me hear him for 
you, let me feel the situation out. Survival is our ticket. Forget the poor, silly women ...." 
"I made them unhappier than they have been in years, Ithink," said Montag. "It shocked me to 
see Mrs. Phelps cry. Maybe they're right, maybe it's best not to face things, to run, have fun. I 
don't know. I feel guilty--" 

"No, you mustn't! If there were no war, if there was peace in the world, I'd say fine, have fun! 
But, Montag, you mustn't go back to being just a fireman. All isn't well with the world." 
Montag perspired. 
"Montag, you listening?" 

"My feet," said Montag. "I can't move them. I feel so damn silly. My feet won't move!" 
"Listen. Easy now," said the old man gently. "I know, I know. You're afraid of making mistakes. 
Don't be. Mistakes can be profited by. Man, when I was young I shoved my ignorance in 
people's faces. They beat me with sticks. By the time I was forty my blunt instrument had been 
honed to a fine cutting point for me. If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you'll 
never learn. Now, pick up your feet, into the firehouse with you! We're twins, we're not alone 
any more, we're not separated out in different parlours, with no contact between. If you need help 
when Beatty pries at you, I'll be sitting right here in your eardrum making notes!" 
Montag felt his right foot, then his left foot, move. 



"Old man," he said, "stay with me." 

The Mechanical Hound was gone. Its kennel was empty and the firehouse stood all about in 

plaster silence and the orange Salamander slept with its kerosene in its belly and the firethrowers 

crossed upon its flanks and Montag came in through the silence and touched the brass pole and 

slid up in the dark air, looking back at the deserted kennel, his heart beating, pausing, beating. 

Faber was a grey moth asleep in his ear, for the moment. 

Beatty stood near the drop-hole waiting, but with his back turned as if he were not waiting. 

"Well," he said to the men playing cards, "here comes a very strange beast which in all tongues is 

called a fool." 

He put his hand to one side, palm up, for a gift. Montag put the book in it. Without even glancing 

at the title, Beatty tossed the book into the trash-basket and lit a cigarette. ""Who are a little wise, 

the best fools be.' Welcome back, Montag. I hope you'll be staying, with us, now that your fever 

is done and your sickness over. Sit in for a hand of poker?" 

They sat and the cards were dealt. In Beatty's sight, Montag felt the guilt of his hands. His 

fingers were like ferrets that had done some evil and now never rested, always stirred and picked 

and hid in pockets, moving from under Beatty's alcohol-flame stare. If Beatty so much as 

breathed on them, Montag felt that his hands might wither, turn over on their sides, and never be 

shocked to life again; they would be buried the rest of his life in his coat-sleeves, forgotten. For 

these were the hands that had acted on their own, no part of him, here was where the conscience 

first manifested itself to snatch books, dart off with job and Ruth and Willie Shakespeare, and 

now, in the firehouse, these hands seemed gloved with blood. 

Twice in half an hour, Montag had to rise from the game and go to the latrine to wash his hands. 

When he came back he hid his hands under the table. 

Beatty laughed. "Let's have your hands in sight, Montag. 

Not that we don't trust you, understand, but--" 

They all laughed. 

"Well," said Beatty, "the crisis is past and all is well, the sheep returns to the fold. We're all 

sheep who have strayed at times. Truth is truth, to the end of reckoning, we've cried. They are 

never alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts, we've shouted to ourselves. "Sweet food 

of sweetly uttered knowledge,' Sir Philip Sidney said. But on the other hand: "Words are like 

leaves and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.' Alexander 

Pope. What do you think of that?" 

"I don't know." 

"Careful," whispered Faber, living in another world, far away. 

"Or this? 'A little learning is a dangerous thing. Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring; There 

shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, and drinking largely sobers us again.' Pope. Same Essay. 

Where does that put you?" 

Montag bit his lip. 

"I'll tell you," said Beatty, smiling at his cards. "That made you for a little while a drunkard. 

Read a few lines and off you go over the cliff. Bang, you're ready to blow up the world, chop off 

heads, knock down women and children, destroy authority. I know, I've been through it all." 

"I'm all right," said Montag, nervously. 

"Stop blushing. I'm not needling, really I'm not. Do you know, I had a dream an hour ago. I lay 

down for a cat-nap and in this dream you and I, Montag, got into a furious debate on books. You 

towered with rage, yelled quotes at me. I calmly parried every thrust. Power, I said, And you, 

quoting Dr. Johnson, said "Knowledge is more than equivalent to force!' And I said, "Well, Dr. 



Johnson also said, dear boy, that "He is no wise man that will quit a certainty for an 

uncertainty.'" Stick with the fireman, Montag. All else is dreary chaos!" 

"Don't listen," whispered Faber. "He's trying to confuse. He's slippery. Watch out!" 

Beatty chuckled. "And you said, quoting, "Truth will come to light, murder will not be hid long!' 

And I cried in good humour, 'Oh God, he speaks only of his horse!' And "The Devil can cite 

Scripture for his purpose.' And you yelled, 'This age thinks better of a gilded fool, than of a 

threadbare saint in wisdom's school!' And I whispered gently, 'The dignity of truth is lost with 

much protesting.' And you screamed, 'Carcasses bleed at the sight of the murderer!' And I said, 

patting your hand, 'What, do I give you trench mouth?' And you shrieked, 'Knowledge is power!' 

and A dwarf on a giant's shoulders of the furthest of the two!' and I summed my side up with 

rare serenity in, 'The folly of mistaking a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring 

of capital truths, and oneself as an oracle, is inborn in us, Mr. Valery once said.'" 

Montag's head whirled sickeningly. He felt beaten unmercifully on brow, eyes, nose, lips, chin, 

on shoulders, on upflailing arms. He wanted to yell, "No! shut up, you're confusing things, stop 

it!" Beatty's graceful fingers thrust out to seize his wrist. 

"God, what a pulse! I've got you going, have I, Montag. Jesus God, your pulse sounds like the 

day after the war. Everything but sirens and bells! Shall I talk some more? I like your look of 

panic. Swahili, Indian, English Lit., I speak them all. A kind of excellent dumb discourse, 

Willie!" 

"Montag, hold on! " The moth brushed Montag's ear. "He's muddying the waters!" 

"Oh, you were scared silly," said Beatty, "for I was doing a terrible thing in using the very books 

you clung to, to rebut you on every hand, on every point! What traitors books can be! You think 

they're backing you up, and they turn on you. Others can use them, too, and there you are, lost in 

the middle of the moor, in a great welter of nouns and verbs and adjectives. And at the very end 

of my dream, along I came with the Salamander and said, Going my way? And you got in and 

we drove back to the firehouse in beatific silence, all -dwindled away to peace." Beatty let 

Montag's wrist go, let the hand slump limply on the table. "All's well that is well in the end." 

Silence. Montag sat like a carved white stone. The echo of the final hammer on his skull died 

slowly away into the black cavern where Faber waited for the echoes to subside. And then when 

the startled dust had settled down about Montag's mind, Faber began, softly, "All right, he's had 

his say. You must take it in. I'll say my say, too, in the next few hours. And you'll take it in. And 

you'll try to judge them and make your decision as to which way to jump, or fall. But I want it to 

be your decision, not mine, and not the Captain's. But remember that the Captain belongs to the 

most dangerous enemy of truth and freedom, the solid unmoving cattle of the majority. Oh, God, 

the terrible tyranny of the majority. We all have our harps to play. And it's up to you now to 

know with which ear you'll listen." 

Montag opened his mouth to answer Faber and was saved this error in the presence of others 

when the station bell rang. The alarm-voice in the ceiling chanted. There was a tacking-tacking 

sound as the alarm-report telephone typed out the address across the room. Captain Beatty, his 

poker cards in one pink hand, walked with exaggerated slowness to the phone and ripped out the 

address when the report was finished. He glanced perfunctorily at it, and shoved it in his pocket. 

He came back and sat down. The others looked at him. 

"It can wait exactly forty seconds while I take all the money away from you," said Beatty, 

happily. 

Montag put his cards down. 

"Tired, Montag? Going out of this game?" 



"Yes." 

"Hold on. Well, come to think of it, we can finish this hand later. Just leave your cards face down 
and hustle the equipment. On the double now." And Beatty rose up again. "Montag, you don't 
look well? I'd hate to think you were coming down with another fever..." 
"I'll be all right." 

"You'll be fine. This is a special case. Come on, jump for it!" 

They leaped into the air and clutched the brass pole as if it were the last vantage point above a 
tidal wave passing below, and then the brass pole, to their dismay slid them down into darkness, 
into the blast and cough and suction of the gaseous dragon roaring to life! 
"Hey !" 

They rounded a corner in thunder and siren, with concussion of tyres, with scream of rubber, 
with a shift of kerosene bulk in the glittery brass tank, like the food in the stomach of a giant; 
with Montag's fingers jolting off the silver rail, swinging into cold space, with the wind tearing 
his hair back from his head, with the wind whistling in his teeth, and him all the while thinking 
of the women, the chaff women in his parlour tonight, with the kernels blown out from under 
them by a neon wind, and his silly damned reading of a book to them. How like trying to put out 
fires with water-pistols, how senseless and insane. One rage turned in for another. One anger 
displacing another. When would he stop being entirely mad and be quiet, be very quiet indeed? 
"Here we go!" 

Montag looked up. Beatty never drove, but he was driving tonight, slamming the Salamander 
around corners, leaning forward high on the driver's throne, his massive black slicker flapping 
out behind so that he seemed a great black bat flying above the engine, over the brass numbers, 
taking the full wind. 

"Here we go to keep the world happy, Montag !" 

Beatty's pink, phosphorescent cheeks glimmered in the high darkness, and he was smiling 
furiously. 
"Here we are!" 

The Salamander boomed to a halt, throwing men off in slips and clumsy hops. Montag stood 
fixing his raw eyes to the cold bright rail under his clenched fingers. 

I can't do it, he thought. How can I go at this new assignment, how can I go on burning things? I 
can't go in this place. 

Beatty, smelling of the wind through which he had rushed, was at Montag's elbow. "All right, 
Montag?" 

The men ran like cripples in their clumsy boots, as quietly as spiders. 
At last Montag raised his eyes and turned. Beatty was watching his face. 
"Something the matter, Montag?" 
"Why," said Montag slowly, "we've stopped in front of my house." 

PART III 

BURNING BRIGHT 

LIGHTS flicked on and house-doors opened all down the street, to watch the carnival set up. 

Montag and Beatty stared, one with dry satisfaction, the other with disbelief, at the house before 

them, this main ring in which torches would be juggled and fire eaten. 

"Well," said Beatty, "now you did it. Old Montag wanted to fly near the sun and now that he's 

burnt his damn wings, he wonders why. Didn't I hint enough when I sent the Hound around your 

place?" 



Montag's face was entirely numb and featureless; he felt his head turn like a stone carving to the 
dark place next door, set in its bright borders of flowers. 

Beatty snorted. "Oh, no! You weren't fooled by that little idiot's routine, now, were you? 
Flowers, butterflies, leaves, sunsets, oh, hell! It's all in her file. I'll be damned. I've hit the 
bullseye. Look at the sick look on your face. A few grass-blades and the quarters of the moon. 
What trash. What good did she ever do with all that?" 

Montag sat on the cold fender of the Dragon, moving his head half an inch to the left, half an 
inch to the right, left, right, left right, left .... 

"She saw everything. She didn't do anything to anyone. She just let them alone." 
"Alone, hell ! She chewed around you, didn't she? One of those damn do-gooders with their 
shocked, holier-than-thou silences, their one talent making others feel guilty. God damn, they 
rise like the midnight sun to sweat you in your bed!" 

The front door opened; Mildred came down the steps, running, one suitcase held with a dream- 
like clenching rigidity in her fist, as a beetle-taxi hissed to the curb. 
"Mildred! " 

She ran past with her body stiff, her face floured with powder, her mouth gone, without lipstick. 
"Mildred, you didn't put in the alarm!" 

She shoved the valise in the waiting beetle, climbed in, and sat mumbling, "Poor family, poor 
family, oh everything gone, everything, everything gone now ...." 

Beatty grabbed Montag's shoulder as the beetle blasted away and hit seventy miles an hour, far 
down the street, gone. 

There was a crash like the falling parts of a dream fashioned out of warped glass, mirrors, and 
crystal prisms. Montag drifted about as if still another incomprehensible storm had turned him, to 
see Stoneman and Black wielding axes, shattering window-panes to provide cross-ventilation. 
The brush of a death's-head moth against a cold black screen. "Montag, this is Faber. Do you 
hear me? What is happening 
"This is happening to me," said Montag. 

"What a dreadful surprise," said Beatty. "For everyone nowadays knows, absolutely is certain, 
that nothing will ever happen to me. Others die, I go on. There are no consequences and no 
responsibilities. Except that there are. But let's not talk about them, eh? By the time the 
consequences catch up with you, it's too late, isn't it, Montag?" 
"Montag, can you get away, run?" asked Faber. 

Montag walked but did not feel his feet touch the cement and then the night grasses. Beatty 
flicked his igniter nearby and the small orange flame drew his fascinated gaze. 
"What is there about fire that's so lovely? No matter what age we are, what draws us to it?" 
Beatty blew out the flame and lit it again. "It's perpetual motion; the thing man wanted to invent 
but never did. Or almost perpetual motion. If you let it go on, it'd burn our lifetimes out. What is 
fire? It's a mystery. Scientists give us gobbledegook about friction and molecules. But they don't 
really know. Its real beauty is that it destroys responsibility and consequences. A problem gets 
too burdensome, then into the furnace with it. Now, Montag, you're a burden. And fire will lift 
you off my shoulders, clean, quick, sure; nothing to rot later. Antibiotic, aesthetic, practical." 
Montag stood looking in now at this queer house, made strange by the hour of the night, by 
murmuring neighbour voices, by littered glass, and there on the floor, their covers torn off and 
spilled out like swan-feathers, the incredible books that looked so silly and really not worth 
bothering with, for these were nothing but black type and yellowed paper, and ravelled binding. 



Mildred, of course. She must have watched him hide the books in the garden and brought them 

back in. Mildred. Mildred. 

"I want you to do this job all by your lonesome, Montag. Not with kerosene and a match, but 

piecework, with a flamethrower. Your house, your clean-up." 

"Montag, can't you run, get away!" 

"No!" cried Montag helplessly. "The Hound! Because of the Hound!" 

Faber heard, and Beatty, thinking it was meant for him, heard. "Yes, the Hound's somewhere 

about the neighbourhood, so don't try anything. Ready?" 

"Ready." Montag snapped the safety-catch on the flamethrower. 

"Fire!" 

A great nuzzling gout of flame leapt out to lap at the books and knock them against the wall. He 

stepped into the bedroom and fired twice and the twin beds went up in a great simmering 

whisper, with more heat and passion and light than he would have supposed them to contain. He 

burnt the bedroom walls and the cosmetics chest because he wanted to change everything, the 

chairs, the tables, and in the dining-room the silverware and plastic dishes, everything that 

showed that he had lived here in this empty house with a strange woman who would forget him 

tomorrow, who had gone and quite forgotten him already, listening to her Seashell radio pour in 

on her and in on her as she rode across town, alone. And as before, it was good to burn, he felt 

himself gush out in the fire, snatch, rend, rip in half with flame, and put away the senseless 

problem. If there was no solution, well then now there was no problem, either. Fire was best for 

everything! 

"The books, Montag!" 

The books leapt and danced like roasted birds, their wings ablaze with red and yellow feathers. 

And then he came to the parlour where the great idiot monsters lay asleep with their white 

thoughts and their snowy dreams. And he shot a bolt at each of the three blank walls and the 

vacuum hissed out at him. The emptiness made an even emptier whistle, a senseless scream. He 

tried to think about the vacuum upon which the nothingness had performed, but he could not. He 

held his breath so the vacuum could not get into his lungs. He cut off its terrible emptiness, drew 

back, and gave the entire room a gift of one huge bright yellow flower of burning. The fire-proof 

plastic sheath on everything was cut wide and the house began to shudder with flame. 

"When you're quite finished," said Beatty behind him. "You're under arrest." 

The house fell in red coals and black ash. It bedded itself down in sleepy pink-grey cinders and a 

smoke plume blew over it, rising and waving slowly back and forth in the sky. It was three-thirty 

in the morning. The crowd drew back into the houses; the great tents of the circus had slumped 

into charcoal and rubble and the show was well over. 

Montag stood with the flame-thrower in his limp hands, great islands of perspiration drenching 

his armpits, his face smeared with soot. The other firemen waited behind him, in the darkness, 

their faces illuminated faintly by the smouldering foundation. 

Montag started to speak twice and then finally managed to put his thought together. 

"Was it my wife turned in the alarm?" 

Beatty nodded. "But her friends turned in an alarm earlier, that I let ride. One way or the other, 

you'd have got it. It was pretty silly, quoting poetry around free and easy like that. It was the act 

of a silly damn snob. Give a man a few lines of verse and he thinks he's the Lord of all Creation. 

You think you can walk on water with your books. Well, the world can get by just fine without 

them. Look where they got you, in slime up to your lip. If I stir the slime with my little finger, 

you'll drown ! " 



Montag could not move. A great earthquake had come with fire and levelled the house and 

Mildred was under there somewhere and his entire life under there and he could not move. The 

earthquake was still shaking and falling and shivering inside him and he stood there, his knees 

half-bent under the great load of tiredness and bewilderment and outrage, letting Beatty hit him 

without raising a hand. 

"Montag, you idiot, Montag, you damn fool; why did you really do it?" 

Montag did not hear, he was far away, he was running with his mind, he was gone, leaving this 

dead soot-covered body to sway in front of another raving fool. 

"Montag, get out of there! " said Faber. 

Montag listened. 

Beatty struck him a blow on the head that sent him reeling back. The green bullet in which 

Faber's voice whispered and cried, fell to the sidewalk. Beatty snatched it up, grinning. He held it 

half in, half out of his ear. 

Montag heard the distant voice calling, "Montag, you all right?" 

Beatty switched the green bullet off and thrust it in his pocket. "Well—so there's more here than I 

thought. I saw you tilt your head, listening. First I thought you had a Seashell. But when you 

turned clever later, I wondered. We'll trace this and drop it on your friend." 

"No! " said Montag. 

He twitched the safety catch on the flame-thrower. Beatty glanced instantly at Montag's fingers 

and his eyes widened the faintest bit. Montag saw the surprise there and himself glanced to his 

hands to see what new thing they had done. Thinking back later he could never decide whether 

the hands or Beatty's reaction to the hands gave him the final push toward murder. The last 

rolling thunder of the avalanche stoned down about his ears, not touching him. 

Beatty grinned his most charming grin. "Well, that's one way to get an audience. Hold a gun on a 

man and force him to listen to your speech. Speech away. What'll it be this time? Why don't you 

belch Shakespeare at me, you fumbling snob? "There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, for I 

am arm'd so strong in honesty that they pass by me as an idle wind, which I respect not!' How's 

that? Go ahead now, you second-hand litterateur, pull the trigger." He took one step toward 

Montag. 

Montag only said, "We never burned right..." 

"Hand it over, Guy," said Beatty with a fixed smile. 

And then he was a shrieking blaze, a jumping, sprawling, gibbering mannikin, no longer human 

or known, all writhing flame on the lawn as Montag shot one continuous pulse of liquid fire on 

him. There was a hiss like a great mouthful of spittle banging a redhot stove, a bubbling and 

frothing as if salt had been poured over a monstrous black snail to cause a terrible liquefaction 

and a boiling over of yellow foam. Montag shut his eyes, shouted, shouted, and fought to get his 

hands at his ears to clamp and to cut away the sound. Beatty flopped over and over and over, and 

at last twisted in on himself like a charred wax doll and lay silent. 

The other two firemen did not move. 

Montag kept his sickness down long enough to aim the flame-thrower. "Turn around!" 

They turned, their faces like blanched meat, streaming sweat; he beat their heads, knocking off 

their helmets and bringing them down on themselves. They fell and lay without moving. 

The blowing of a single autumn leaf. 

He turned and the Mechanical Hound was there. 

It was half across the lawn, coming from the shadows, moving with such drifting ease that it was 

like a single solid cloud of black-grey smoke blown at him in silence. 



It made a single last leap into the air, coming down at Montag from a good three feet over his 

head, its spidered legs reaching, the procaine needle snapping out its single angry tooth. Montag 

caught it with a bloom of fire, a single wondrous blossom that curled in petals of yellow and blue 

and orange about the metal dog, clad it in a new covering as it slammed into Montag and threw 

him ten feet back against the bole of a tree, taking the flame-gun with him. He felt it scrabble and 

seize his leg and stab the needle in for a moment before the fire snapped the Hound up in the air, 

burst its metal bones at the joints, and blew out its interior in the single flushing of red colour 

like a skyrocket fastened to the street. Montag lay watching the dead-alive thing fiddle the air 

and die. Even now it seemed to want to get back at him and finish the injection which was now 

working through the flesh of his leg. He felt all of the mingled relief and horror at having pulled 

back only in time to have just his knee slammed by the fender of a car hurtling by at ninety miles 

an hour. He was afraid to 

get up, afraid he might not be able to gain his feet at all, with an anaesthetized leg. A numbness 

in a numbness hollowed into a numbness.... 

And now...? 

The street empty, the house burnt like an ancient bit of stage-scenery, the other homes dark, the 

Hound here, Beatty there, the three other firemen another place, and the Salamander . . . ? He 

gazed at the immense engine. That would have to go, too. 

Well, he thought, let's see how badly off you are. On your feet now. Easy, easy . . . there. 

He stood and he had only one leg. The other was like a chunk of burnt pine-log he was carrying 

along as a penance for some obscure sin. When he put his weight on it, a shower of silver 

needles gushed up the length of the calf and went off in the knee. He wept. Come on ! Come on, 

you, you can't stay here! 

A few house-lights were going on again down the street, whether from the incidents just passed, 

or because of the abnormal silence following the fight, Montag did not know. He hobbled around 

the ruins, seizing at his bad leg when it lagged, talking and whimpering and shouting directions 

at it and cursing it and pleading with it to work for him now when it was vital. He heard a 

number of people crying out in the darkness and shouting. He reached the back yard and the 

alley. Beatty, he thought, you're not a problem now. You always said, don't face a problem, bum 

it. Well, now I've done both. Good-bye, Captain. 

And he stumbled along the alley in the dark. 

A shotgun blast went off in his leg every time he put it down and he thought, you're a fool, a 

damn fool, an awful fool, an idiot, an awful idiot, a damn idiot, and a fool, a damn fool; look at 

the mess and where's the mop, look at the mess, and what do you do? Pride, damn it, and temper, 

and you've junked it all, at the very start you vomit on everyone and on yourself. But everything 

at once, but everything one on top of another; Beatty, the women, Mildred, Clarisse, everything. 

No excuse, though, no excuse. A fool, a damn fool, go give yourself up! 

No, we'll save what we can, we'll do what there is left to do. If we have to burn, let's take a few 

more with us. Here! 

He remembered the books and turned back. Just on the off chance. 

He found a few books where he had left them, near the garden fence. Mildred, God bless her, had 

missed a few. Four books still lay hidden where he had put them. Voices were wailing in the 

night and flashbeams swirled about. Other Salamanders were roaring their engines far away, and 

police sirens were cutting their way across town with their sirens. 

Montag took the four remaining books and hopped, jolted, hopped his way down the alley and 

suddenly fell as if his head had been cut off and only his body lay there. Something inside had 



jerked him to a halt and flopped him down. He lay where he had fallen and sobbed, his legs 

folded, his face pressed blindly to the gravel. 

Beatty wanted to die. 

In the middle of the crying Montag knew it for the truth. Beatty had wanted to die. He had just 

stood there, not really trying to save himself, just stood there, joking, needling, thought Montag, 

and the thought was enough to stifle his sobbing and let him pause for air. How strange, strange, 

to want to die so much that you let a man walk around armed and then instead of shutting up and 

staying alive, you go on yelling at people and making fun of them until you get them mad, and 

then .... 

At a distance, running feet. 

Montag sat up. Let's get out of here. Come on, get up, get up, you just can't sit! But he was still 

crying and that had to be finished. It was going away now. He hadn't wanted to kill anyone, not 

even Beatty. His flesh gripped him and shrank as if it had been plunged in acid. He gagged. He 

saw Beatty, a torch, not moving, fluttering out on the grass. He bit at his knuckles. I'm sorry, I'm 

sorry, oh God, sorry .... 

He tried to piece it all together, to go back to the normal pattern of life a few short days ago 

before the sieve and the sand, Denham's Dentifrice, moth-voices, fireflies, the alarms and 

excursions, too much for a few short days, too much, indeed, for a lifetime. 

Feet ran in the far end of the alley. 

"Get up!" he told himself. "Damn it, get up!" he said to the leg, and stood. The pains were spikes 

driven in the kneecap and then only darning needles and then only common, ordinary safety pins, 

and after he had dragged along fifty more hops and jumps, filling his hand with slivers from the 

board fence, the prickling was like someone blowing a spray of scalding water on that leg. And 

the leg was at last his own leg again. He had been afraid that running might break the loose 

ankle. Now, sucking all the night into his open mouth, and blowing it out pale, with all the 

blackness left heavily inside himself, he set out in a steady jogging pace. He carried the books in 

his hands. 

He thought of Faber. 

Faber was back there in the steaming lump of tar that had no name or identity now. He had burnt 

Faber, too. He felt so suddenly shocked by this that he felt Faber was really dead, baked like a 

roach in that small green capsule shoved and lost in the pocket of a man who was now nothing 

but a frame skeleton strung with asphalt tendons. 

You must remember, burn them or they'll burn you, he thought. Right now it's as simple as that. 

He searched his pockets, the money was there, and in his other pocket he found the usual 

Seashell upon which the city was talking to itself in the cold black morning. 

"Police Alert. Wanted: Fugitive in city. Has committed murder and crimes against the State. 

Name: Guy Montag. Occupation: Fireman. Last seen ..." 

He ran steadily for six blocks, in the alley, and then the alley opened out on to a wide empty 

thoroughfare ten lanes wide. It seemed like a boatless river frozen there in the raw light of the 

high white arc-lamps; you could drown trying to cross it, he felt; it was too wide, it was too open. 

It was a vast stage without scenery, inviting him to run across, easily seen in the blazing 

illumination, easily caught, easily shot down. 

The Seashell hummed in his ear. 

"... watch for a man running ... watch for the running man . . . watch for a man alone, on foot . . . 

watch..." 



Montag pulled back into the shadows. Directly ahead lay a gas station, a great chunk of porcelain 

snow shining there, and two silver beetles pulling in to fill up. Now he must be clean and 

presentable if he wished, to walk, not run, stroll calmly across that wide boulevard. It would give 

him an extra margin of safety if he washed up and combed his hair before he went on his way to 

get where . . . ? 

Yes, he thought, where am I running? 

Nowhere. There was nowhere to go, no friend to turn to, really. Except Faber. And then he 

realized that he was indeed, running toward Faber's house, instinctively. But Faber couldn't hide 

him; it would be suicide even to try. But he knew that he would go to see Faber anyway, for a 

few short minutes. Faber's would be the place where he might refuel his fast draining belief in 

his own ability to survive. He just wanted to know that there was a man like Faber in the world. 

He wanted to see the man alive and not burned back there like a body shelled in another body. 

And some of the money must be left with Faber, of course, to be spent after Montag ran on his 

way. Perhaps he could make the open country and live on or near the rivers and near the 

highways, in the fields and hills. 

A great whirling whisper made him look to the sky. 

The police helicopters were rising so far away that it seemed someone had blown the grey head 

off a dry dandelion flower. Two dozen of them flurried, wavering, indecisive, three miles off, 

like butterflies puzzled by autumn, and then they were plummeting down to land, one by one, 

here, there, softly kneading the streets where, turned back to beetles, they shrieked along the 

boulevards or, as suddenly, leapt back into the sir, continuing their search. 

And here was the gas station, its attendants busy now with customers. Approaching from the 

rear, Montag entered the men's washroom. Through the aluminium wall he heard a radio voice 

saying, "War has been declared." The gas was being pumped outside. The men in the beetles 

were talking and the attendants were talking about the engines, the gas, the money owed. Montag 

stood trying to make himself feel the shock of the quiet statement from the radio, but nothing 

would happen. The war would have to wait for him to come to it in his personal file, an hour, 

two hours from now. 

He washed his hands and face and towelled himself dry, making little sound. He came out of the 

washroom and shut the door carefully and walked into the darkness and at last stood again on the 

edge of the empty boulevard. 

There it lay, a game for him to win, a vast bowling alley in the cool morning. The boulevard was 

as clean as the surface of an arena two minutes before the appearance of certain unnamed victims 

and certain unknown killers. The air over and above the vast concrete river trembled with the 

warmth of Montag' s body alone; it was incredible how he felt his temperature could cause the 

whole immediate world to vibrate. He was a phosphorescent target; he knew it, he felt it. And 

now he must begin his little walk. 

Three blocks away a few headlights glared. Montag drew a deep breath. His lungs were like 

burning brooms in his chest. His mouth was sucked dry from running. His throat tasted of bloody 

iron and there was rusted steel in his feet. 

What about those lights there? Once you started walking you'd have to gauge how fast those 

beetles could make it down here. Well, how far was it to the other curb? It seemed like a hundred 

yards. Probably not a hundred, but figure for that anyway, figure that with him going very 

slowly, at a nice stroll, it might take as much as thirty seconds, forty seconds to walk all the way. 

The beetles? Once started, they could leave three blocks behind them in about fifteen seconds. 

So, even if halfway across he started to run . . . ? 



He put his right foot out and then his left foot and then his right. He walked on the empty avenue. 

Even if the street were entirely empty, of course, you couldn't be sure of a safe crossing, for a car 

could appear suddenly over the rise four blocks further on and be on and past you before you had 

taken a dozen breaths. 

He decided not to count his steps. He looked neither to left nor right. The light from the overhead 

lamps seemed as bright and revealing as the midday sun and just as hot. 

He listened to the sound of the car picking up speed two blocks away on his right. Its movable 

headlights jerked back and forth suddenly, and caught at Montag. 

Keep going. 

Montag faltered, got a grip on the books, and forced himself not to freeze. Instinctively he took a 

few quick, running steps then talked out loud to himself and pulled up to stroll again. He was 

now half across the street, but the roar from the beetle's engines whined higher as it put on speed. 

The police, of course. They see me. But slow now; slow, quiet, don't turn, don't look, don't seem 

concerned. Walk, that's it, walls, walk. 

The beetle was rushing. The beetle was roaring. The beetle raised its speed. The beetle was 

whining. The beetle was in high thunder. The beetle came skimming. The beetle came in a single 

whistling trajectory, fired from an invisible rifle. It was up to 120 m.p.h. It was up to 130 at least. 

Montag clamped his jaws. The heat of the racing headlights burnt his cheeks, it seemed, and 

jittered his eye-lids and flushed the sour sweat out all over his body. 

He began to shuffle idiotically and talk to himself and then he broke and just ran. He put out his 

legs as far as they would go and down and then far out again and down and back and out and 

down and back. God ! God! He dropped a book, broke pace, almost turned, changed his mind, 

plunged on, yelling in concrete emptiness, the beetle scuttling after its running food, two 

hundred, one hundred feet away, ninety, eighty, seventy, Montag gasping, flailing his hands, legs 

up down out, up down out, closer, closer, hooting, calling, his eyes burnt white now as his head 

jerked about to confront the flashing glare, now the beetle was swallowed in its own light, now it 

was nothing but a torch hurtling upon him; all sound, all blare. Now-almost on top of him ! 

He stumbled and fell. 

I'm done! It's over! 

But the falling made a difference. An instant before reaching him the wild beetle cut and 

swerved out. It was gone. Montag lay flat, his head down. Wisps of laughter trailed back to him 

with the blue exhaust from the beetle. 

His right hand was extended above him, flat. Across the extreme tip of his middle finger, he saw 

now as he lifted that hand, a faint sixteenth of an inch of black tread where tyre had touched in 

passing. He looked at that black line with disbelief, getting to his feet. 

That wasn't the police, he thought. 

He looked down the boulevard. It was clear now. A earful of children, all ages, God knew, from 

twelve to sixteen, out 

124 FAHRENHEIT 451 

whistling, yelling, hurrahing, had seen a man, a very extraordinary sight, a man strolling, a rarity, 
and simply said, "Let's get him," not knowing he was the fugitive Mr. Montag, simply a,number 
of children out for a long night of roaring five or six hundred miles in a few moonlit hours, their 
faces icy with wind, and coming home or not coming at dawn, alive or not alive, that made the 
adventure. 



They would have killed me, thought Montag, swaying, the air still torn and stirring about him in 

dust, touching his bruised cheek. For no reason at all in the world they would have killed me. 

He walked toward the far kerb telling each foot to go and keep going. Somehow he had picked 

up the spilled books; he didn't remember bending or touching them. He kept moving them from 

hand to hand as if they were a poker hand he could not figure. 

I wonder if they were the ones who killed Clarisse? 

He stopped and his mind said it again, very loud. 

I wonder if they were the ones who killed Clarisse! 

He wanted to run after them yelling. 

His eyes watered. 

The thing that had saved him was falling flat. The driver of that car, seeing Montag down, 

instinctively considered the probability that running over a body at that speed might turn the car 

upside down and spill them out. If Montag had remained an upright target. . . ? 

Montag gasped. 

Far down the boulevard, four blocks away, the beetle had slowed, spun about on two wheels, and 

was now racing back, slanting over on the wrong side of the street, picking up speed. 

But Montag was gone, hidden in the safety of the dark alley for which he had set out on a long 

journey, an hour or was it a minute, ago? He stood shivering in the night, looking back out as the 

beetle ran by and skidded back to the centre of the avenue, whirling laughter in the air all about 

it, gone. 

Further on, as Montag moved in darkness, he could see the helicopters falling, falling, like the 

first flakes of snow in the long winter, to come.... 

The house was silent. 

Montag approached from the rear, creeping through a thick night-moistened scent of daffodils 

and roses and wet grass. He touched the screen door in back, found it open, slipped in, moved 

across the porch, listening. 

Mrs. Black, are you asleep in there? he thought. This isn't good, but your husband did it to others 

and never asked and never wondered and never worried. And now since you're a fireman's wife, 

it's your house and your turn, for all the houses your husband burned and the people he hurt 

without thinking. . 

The house did not reply. 

He hid the books in the kitchen and moved from the house again to the alley and looked back 

and the house was still dark and quiet, sleeping. 

On his way across town, with the helicopters fluttering like torn bits of paper in the sky, he 

phoned the alarm at a lonely phone booth outside a store that was closed for the night. Then he 

stood in the cold night air, waiting and at a distance he heard the fire sirens start up and run, and 

the Salamanders coming, coming to bum Mr. Black's house while he was away at work, to make 

his wife stand shivering in the morning air while the roof let go and dropped in upon the fire. But 

now, she was still asleep. 

Good night, Mrs. Black, he thought. - 

"Faber! " 

Another rap, a whisper, and a long waiting. Then, after a minute, a small light flickered inside 

Faber's small house. After another pause, the back door opened. 

They stood looking at each other in the half-light, Faber and Montag, as if each did not believe in 

the other's existence. Then Faber moved and put out his hand and grabbed Montag and moved 



him in and sat him down and went back and stood in the door, listening. The sirens were wailing 
off in the morning distance. He came in and shut the door. 

Montag said, "I've been a fool all down the line. I can't stay long. I'm on my way God knows 
where." 

"At least you were a fool about the right things," said Faber. "I thought you were dead. The 
audio-capsule I gave you--" 
"Burnt." 

"I heard the captain talking to you and suddenly there was nothing. I almost came out looking for 
you." 

"The captain's dead. He found the audio-capsule, he heard your voice, he was going to trace it. I 
killed him with the flamethrower." 
Faber sat down and did not speak for a time. 

"My God, how did this happen?" said Montag. "It was only the other night everything was fine 
and the next thing I know I'm drowning. How many times can a man go down and still be alive? 
I can't breathe. There's Beatty dead, and he was my friend once, and there's Millie gone, I 
thought she was my wife, but now I don't know. And the house all burnt. And my job gone and 
myself on the run, and I planted a book in a fireman's house on the way. Good Christ, the things 
I've done in a single week! " 

"You did what you had to do. It was coming on for a long time." 

"Yes, I believe that, if there's nothing else I believe. It saved itself up to happen. I could feel it 
for a long time, I was saving something up, I went around doing one thing and feeling another. 
God, it was all there. It's a wonder it didn't show on me, like fat. And now here I am, messing up 
your life. They might follow me here. " 

"I feel alive for the first time in years," said Faber. "I feel I'm doing what I should have done a 
lifetime ago. For a little while I'm not afraid. Maybe it's because I'm doing the right thing at last. 
Maybe it's because I've done a rash thing and don't want to look the coward to you. I suppose I'll 
have to do even more violent things, exposing myself so I won't fall down on the job and turn 
scared again. What are your plans?" 
"To keep running." 
"You know the war's on?" 
"I heard." 

"God, isn't it funny?" said the old man. "It seems so remote because we have our own troubles." 
"I haven't had time to think." Montag drew out a hundred dollars. "I want this to stay with you, 
use it any way that'll help when I'm gone." 
"But- " 

"I might be dead by noon; use this." 

Faber nodded. "You'd better head for the river if you can, follow along it, and if you can hit the 
old railroad lines going out into the country, follow them. Even though practically everything's 
airborne these days and most of the tracks are abandoned, the rails are still there, rusting. I've 
heard there are still hobo camps all across the country, here and there; walking camps they call 
them, and if you keep walking far enough and keep an eye peeled, they say there's lots of old 
Harvard degrees on the tracks between here and Los Angeles. Most of them are wanted and 
hunted in the cities. They survive, I guess. There aren't many of them, and I guess the 
Government's never considered them a great enough danger to go in and track them down. You 
might hole up with them for a time and get in touch with me in St. Louis, I'm leaving on the five 
a.m. bus this morning, to see a retired printer there, I'm getting out into the open myself, at last. 



The money will be put to good use. Thanks and God bless you. Do you want to sleep a few 
minutes?" 
"I'd better run." 
"Let's check." 

He took Montag quickly into the bedroom and lifted a picture frame aside, revealing a television 
screen the size of a postal card. "I always wanted something very small, something I could talk 
to, something I could blot out with the palm of my hand, if necessary, nothing that could shout 
me down, nothing monstrous big. So, you see." He snapped it on. "Montag," the TV set said, and 
lit up. "M-O-N-T-A-G." The name was spelled out by the voice. "Guy Montag. Still running. 
Police helicopters are up. A new Mechanical Hound has been brought from another district.. ." 
Montag and Faber looked at each other. 

"... Mechanical Hound never fails. Never since its first use in tracking quarry has this incredible 
invention made a mistake. Tonight, this network is proud to have the opportunity to follow the 
Hound by camera helicopter as it starts on its way to the target..." 
Faber poured two glasses of whisky. "We'll need these." 
They drank. 

"... nose so sensitive the Mechanical Hound can remember and identify ten thousand odour- 
indexes on ten thousand men without re-setting! " 

Faber trembled the least bit and looked about at his house, at the walls, the door, the doorknob, 
and the chair where Montag now sat. Montag saw the look. They both looked quickly about the 
house and Montag felt his nostrils dilate and he knew that he was trying to track himself and his 
nose was suddenly good enough to sense the path he had made in the air of the room and the 
sweat of his hand hung from the doorknob, invisible, but as numerous as the jewels of a small 
chandelier, he was everywhere, in and on and about everything, he was a luminous cloud, a ghost 
that made breathing once more impossible. He saw Faber stop up his own breath for fear of 
drawing that ghost into his own body, perhaps, being contaminated with the phantom exhalations 
and odours of a running man. 

"The Mechanical Hound is now landing by helicopter at the site of the Burning!" 
And there on the small screen was the burnt house, and the crowd, and something with a sheet 
over it and out of the sky, fluttering, came the helicopter like a grotesque flower. 
So they must have their game out, thought Montag. The circus must go on, even with war 
beginning within the hour.... 

He watched the scene, fascinated, not wanting to move. It seemed so remote and no part of him; 
it was a play apart and separate, wondrous to watch, not without its strange pleasure. That's all 
for me, you thought, that's all taking place just for me, by God. 

If he wished, he could linger here, in comfort, and follow the entire hunt on through its swift, 
phases, down alleys across streets, over empty running avenues, crossing lots and playgrounds, 
with pauses here or there for the necessary commercials, up other alleys to the burning house of 
Mr. and Mrs. Black, and so on finally to this house with Faber and himself seated, drinking, 
while the Electric Hound snuffed down the last trail, silent as a drift of death itself, skidded to a 
halt outside that window there. Then, if he wished, Montag might rise, walk to the window, keep 
one eye on the TV screen, open the window, lean out, look back, and see himself dramatized, 
described, made over, standing there, limned in the bright small television screen from outside, a 
drama to be watched objectively, knowing that in other parlours he was large as life, in full 
colour, dimensionally perfect! And if he kept his eye peeled quickly he would see himself, an 
instant before oblivion, being punctured for the benefit of how many civilian parlour-sitters who 



had been wakened from sleep a few minutes ago by the frantic sirening of their living-room 

walls to come watch the big game, the hunt, the one-man carnival. 

Would he have time for a speech? As the Hound seized him, in view of ten or twenty or thirty 

million people, mightn't he sum up his entire life in the last week in one single phrase or a word 

that would stay with them long after the. Hound had turned, clenching him in its metal-plier 

jaws, and trotted off in darkness, while the camera remained stationary, watching the creature 

dwindle in the distance—a splendid fade-out! What could he say in a single word, a few words, 

that would sear all their faces and wake them up? 

"There," whispered Faber. 

Out of a helicopter glided something that was not machine, not animal, not dead, not alive, 

glowing with a pale green luminosity. It stood near the smoking ruins of Montag's house and the 

men brought his discarded flame-thrower to it and put it down under the muzzle of the Hound. 

There was a whirring, clicking, humming. 

Montag shook his head and got up and drank the rest of his drink. "It's time. I'm sorry about 

this:" 

"About what? Me? My house? I deserve everything. Run, for God's sake. Perhaps I can delay 

them here--" 

"Wait. There's no use your being discovered. When I leave, burn the spread of this bed, that I 

touched. Burn the chair in the living room, in your wall incinerator. Wipe down the furniture 

with alcohol, wipe the door-knobs. Burn the throwrug in the parlour. Turn the air-conditioning 

on full in all the rooms and spray with moth-spray if you have it. Then, turn on your lawn 

sprinklers as high as they'll go and hose off the sidewalks. With any luck at all, we can kill the 

trail in here, anyway..' 

Faber shook his hand. "I'll tend to it. Good luck. If we're both in good health, next week, the 

week after, get in touch. General Delivery, St. Louis. I'm sorry there's no way I can go with you 

this time, by ear-phone. That was good for both of us. But my equipment was limited. You see, I 

never thought I would use it. What a silly old man. No thought there. Stupid, stupid. So I haven't 

another green bullet, the right kind, to put in your head. Go now ! " 

"One last thing. Quick. A suitcase, get it, fill it with your dirtiest clothes, an old suit, the dirtier 

the better, a shirt, some old sneakers and socks . . . . " 

Faber was gone and back in a minute. They sealed the cardboard valise with clear tape. "To keep 

the ancient odour of Mr. Faber in, of course," said Faber sweating at the job. 

Montag doused the exterior of the valise with whisky. "I don't want that Hound picking up two 

odours at once. May I take this whisky. I'll need it later. Christ I hope this works!" 

They shook hands again and, going out of the door, they glanced at the TV. The Hound was on 

its way, followed by hovering helicopter cameras, silently, silently, sniffing the great night wind. 

It was running down the first alley. 

"Good-bye ! " 

And Montag was out the back door lightly, running with the half-empty valise. Behind him he 

heard the lawn-sprinkling system jump up, filling the dark air with rain that fell gently and then 

with a steady pour all about, washing on the sidewalks, and draining into the alley. He carried a 

few drops of this rain with him on his face. He thought he heard the old man call good-bye, but 

he-wasn't certain. 

He ran very fast away from the house, down toward the river. 

Montag ran. 



He could feel the Hound, like autumn, come cold and dry and swift, like a wind that didn't stir 

grass, that didn't jar windows or disturb leaf-shadows on the white sidewalks as it passed. The 

Hound did not touch the world. It carried its silence with it, so you could feel the silence building 

up a pressure behind you all across town. Montag felt the pressure rising, and ran. 

He stopped for breath, on his way to the river, to peer through dimly lit windows of wakened 

houses, and saw the silhouettes of people inside watching their parlour walls and there on the 

walls the Mechanical Hound, a breath of neon vapour, spidered along, here and gone, here and 

gone ! Now at Elm Terrace, Lincoln, Oak, Park, and up the alley toward Faber's house. 

Go past, thought Montag, don't stop, go on, don't turn in! 

On the parlour wall, Faber's house, with its sprinkler system pulsing in the night air. 

The Hound paused, quivering. 

No! Montag held to the window sill. This way! Here! 

The procaine needle flicked out and in, out and in. A single clear drop of the stuff of dreams fell 

from the needle as it vanished in the Hound's muzzle. 

Montag held his breath, like a doubled fist, in his chest. 

The Mechanical Hound turned and plunged away from Faber's house down the alley again. 

Montag snapped his gaze to the sky. The helicopters were closer, a great blowing of insects to a 

single light source. 

With an effort, Montag reminded himself again that this was no fictional episode to be watched 

on his run to the river; it was in actuality his own chess-game he was witnessing, move by move. 

He shouted to give himself the necessary push away from this last house window, and the 

fascinating seance going on in there ! Hell ! and he was away and gone ! The alley, a street, the 

alley, a street, and the smell of the river. Leg out, leg down, leg out and down. Twenty million 

Montags running, soon, if the cameras caught him. Twenty million Montags running, running 

like an ancient flickery Keystone Comedy, cops, robbers, chasers and the chased, hunters and 

hunted, he had seen it a thousand times. Behind him now twenty million silently baying Hounds 

ricocheted across parlours, three-cushion shooting from right wall to centre wall to left wall, 

gone, right wall, centre wall, left wall, gone ! 

Montag jammed his Seas hell to his ear. 

"Police suggest entire population in the Elm Terrace area do as follows: Everyone in every house 

in every street open a front or rear door or look from the windows. The fugitive cannot escape if 

everyone in the next minute looks from his house. Ready! " 

Of course! Why hadn't they done it before! Why, in all the years, hadn't this game been tried! 

Everyone up, everyone out! He couldn't be missed! The only man running alone in the night city, 

the only man proving his legs ! 

"At the count often now! One! Two!" 

He felt the city rise. Three . 

He felt the city turn to its thousands of doors. 

Faster! Leg up, leg down ! 

"Four ! " 

The people sleepwalking in their hallways. 

"Five! " 

He felt their hands on the doorknobs ! 

The smell of the river was cool and like a solid rain. His throat was burnt rust and his eyes were 

wept dry with running. He yelled as if this yell would jet him on, fling him the last hundred 

yards. 



"Six, seven, eight ! " 

The doorknobs turned on five thousand doors. "Nine!" 

He ran out away from the last row of houses, on a slope leading down to a solid moving 

blackness. "Ten!" 

The doors opened. 

He imagined thousands on thousands of faces peering into yards, into alleys, and into the sky, 

faces hid by curtains, pale, night-frightened faces, like grey animals peering from electric caves, 

faces with grey colourless eyes, grey tongues and grey thoughts looking out through the numb 

flesh of the face. 

But he was at the river. 

He touched it, just to be sure it was real. He waded in and stripped in darkness to the skin, 

splashed his body, arms, legs, and head with raw liquor; drank it and snuffed some up his nose. 

Then he dressed in Faber's old clothes and shoes. He tossed his own clothing into the river and 

watched it swept away. Then, holding the suitcase, he walked out in the river until there was no 

bottom and he was swept away in the dark. 

He was three hundred yards downstream when the Hound reached the river. Overhead the great 

racketing fans of the helicopters hovered. A storm of light fell upon the river and Montag dived 

under the great illumination as if the sun had broken the clouds. He felt the river pull him further 

on its way, into darkness. Then the lights switched back to the land, the helicopters swerved over 

the city again, as if they had picked up another trail. They were gone. The Hound was gone. Now 

there was only the cold river and Montag floating in a sudden peacefulness, away from the city 

and the lights and the chase, away from everything. 

He felt as if he had left a stage behind and many actors. He felt as if he had left the great seance 

and all the murmuring ghosts. He was moving from an unreality that was frightening into a 

reality that was unreal because it was new. 

The black land slid by and he was going into the country among the hills: For the first time in a 

dozen years the stars were coming out above him, in great processions of wheeling fire. He saw a 

great juggernaut of stars form in the sky and threaten to roll over and crush him. 

He floated on his back when the valise filled and sank; the river was mild and leisurely, going 

away from the people who ate shadows for breakfast and steam for lunch and vapours for supper. 

The river was very real; it held him comfortably and gave him the time at last, the leisure, to 

consider this month, this year, and a lifetime of years. He listened to his heart slow. His thoughts 

stopped rushing with his blood. 

He saw the moon low in the sky now. The moon there, and the light of the moon caused by 

what? By the sun, of course. And what lights the sun? Its own fire. And the sun goes on, day 

after day, burning and burning. The sun and time. The sun and time and burning. Burning. The 

river bobbled him along gently. Burning. The sun and every clock on the earth. It all came 

together and became a single thing in his mind. After a long time of floating on the land and a 

short time of floating in the river he knew why he must never burn again in his life. 

The sun burned every day. It burned Time. The world rushed in a circle and turned on its axis 

and time was busy burning the years and the people anyway, without any help from him. So if he 

burnt things with the firemen, and the sun burnt Time, that meant. that everything burned! 

One of them had to stop burning. The sun wouldn't, certainly. So it looked as if it had to be 

Montag and the people he had worked with until a few short hours ago. Somewhere the saving 

and putting away had to begin again and someone had to do the saving and keeping, one way or 

another, in books, in records, in people's heads, any way at all so long as it was safe, free from 



moths, silver-fish, rust and dry-rot, and men with matches. The world was full of burning of all 

types and sizes. Now the guild of the asbestos-weaver must open shop very soon. 

He felt his heel bump land, touch pebbles and rocks, scrape sand. The river had moved him 

toward shore. 

He looked in at the great black creature without eyes or light, without shape, with only a size that 

went a thousand miles without wanting to stop, with its grass hills and forests that were waiting 

for him. 

He hesitated to leave the comforting flow of the water. He expected the Hound there. Suddenly 

the trees might blow under a great wind of helicopters. 

But there was only the normal autumn wind high up, going by like another river. Why wasn't the 

Hound running? Why had the search veered inland? Montag listened. Nothing. Nothing. 

Millie, he thought. All this country here. Listen to it! Nothing and nothing. So much silence, 

Millie, I wonder how you'd take it? Would you shout Shut up, shut up! Millie, Millie. And he 

was sad. 

Millie was not here and the Hound was not here, but the dry smell of hay blowing from some 

distant field put Montag on the land. He remembered a farm he had visited when he was very 

young, one of the rare times he had discovered that somewhere behind the seven veils of 

unreality, beyond the walls of parlours and beyond the tin moat of the city, cows chewed grass 

and pigs sat in warm ponds at noon and dogs barked after white sheep on a hill. 

Now, the dry smell of hay, the motion of the waters, made him think of sleeping in fresh hay in a 

lonely barn away from the loud highways, behind a quiet farmhouse, and under an ancient 

windmill that whirred like the sound of the passing years overhead. He lay in the high barn loft 

all night, listening to distant animals and insects and trees, the little motions and stirrings. 

During the night, he thought, below the loft, he would hear a sound like feet moving, perhaps. He 

would tense and sit up. The sound would move away, He would lie back and look out of the loft 

window, very late in the night, and see the lights go out in the farmhouse itself, until a very 

young and beautiful woman would sit in an unlit window, braiding her hair. It would be hard to 

see her, but her face would be like the face of the girl so long ago in his past now, so very long 

ago, the girl who had known the weather and never been burned by the fire-flies, the girl who 

had known what dandelions meant rubbed off on your chin. Then, she would be gone from the 

warm window and appear again upstairs in her moon-whitened room. And then, to the sound of 

death, the sound of the jets cutting the sky into two black pieces beyond the horizon, he would lie 

in the loft, hidden and safe, watching those strange new stars over the rim of the earth, fleeing 

from the soft colour of dawn. 

In the morning he would not have needed sleep, for all the warm odours and sights of a complete 

country night would have rested and slept him while his eyes were wide and his mouth, when he 

thought to test it, was half a smile. 

And there at the bottom of the hayloft stair, waiting for him, would be the incredible thing. He 

would step carefully down, in the pink light of early morning, so fully aware of the world that he 

would be afraid, and stand over the small miracle and at last bend to touch it. 

A cool glass of fresh milk, and a few apples and pears laid at the foot of the steps. 

This was all he wanted now. Some sign that the immense world would accept him and give him 

the long time needed to think all the things that must be thought. 

A glass of milk, an apple, a pear. 

He stepped from the river. 



The land rushed at him, a tidal wave. He was crushed by darkness and the look of the country 

and the million odours on a wind that iced his body. He fell back under the breaking curve of 

darkness and sound and smell, his ears roaring. He whirled. The stars poured over his sight like 

flaming meteors. He wanted to plunge in the river again and let it idle him safely on down 

somewhere. This dark land rising was like that day in his childhood, swimming, when from 

nowhere the largest wave in the history of remembering slammed him down in salt mud and 

green darkness, water burning mouth and nose, retching his stomach, screaming! Too much 

water! 

Too much land! 

Out of the black wall before him, a whisper. A shape. In the shape, two eyes. The night looking 

at him. The forest, seeing him. 

The Hound! 

After all the running and rushing and sweating it out and half-drowning, to come this far, work 

this hard, and think yourself safe and sigh with relief and come out on the land at last only to find 

The Hound! 

Montag gave one last agonized shout as if this were too much for any man. 

The shape exploded away. The eyes vanished. The leafpiles flew up in a dry shower. 

Montag was alone in the wilderness. 

A deer. He smelled the heavy musk-like perfume mingled with blood and the gummed 

exhalation of the animal's breath, all cardamon and moss and ragweed odour in this huge night 

where the trees ran at him, pulled away, ran, pulled away, to the pulse of the heart behind his 

eyes. 

There must have been a billion leaves on the land; he waded in them, a dry river smelling of hot 

cloves and warm dust. And the other smells! There was a smell like a cut potato from all the 

land, raw and cold and white from having the moon on it most of the night. There was a smell 

like pickles from a bottle and a smell like parsley on the table at home. There was a faint yellow 

odour like mustard from a jar. There was a smell like carnations from the yard next door. He put 

down his hand and felt a weed rise up like a child brushing him. His fingers smelled of liquorice. 

He stood breathing, and the more he breathed the land in, the more he was filled up with all the 

details of the land. He was not empty. There was more than enough here to fill him. There would 

always be more than enough. 

He walked in the shallow tide of leaves, stumbling. 

And in the middle of the strangeness, a familiarity. 

His foot hit something that rang dully. 

He moved his hand on the ground, a yard this way, a yard that. 

The railroad track. 

The track that came out of the city and rusted across the land, through forests and woods, 

deserted now, by the river. 

Here was the path to wherever he was going. Here was the single familiar thing, the magic charm 

he might need a little while, to touch, to feel beneath his feet, as he moved on into the bramble 

bushes and the lakes of smelling and feeling and touching, among the whispers and the blowing 

down of leaves. 

He walked on the track. 

And he was surprised to learn how certain he suddenly was of a single fact he could not prove. 

Once, long ago, Clarisse had walked here, where he was walking now. 



Half an hour later, cold, and moving carefully on the tracks, fully aware of his entire body, his 

face, his mouth, his eyes stuffed with blackness, his ears stuffed with sound, his legs prickled 

with burrs and nettles, he saw the fire ahead. 

The fire was gone, then back again, like a winking eye. He stopped, afraid he might blow the fire 

out with a single breath. But the fire was there and he approached warily, from a long way off. It 

took the better part of fifteen minutes before he drew very close indeed to it, and then he stood 

looking at it from cover. That small motion, the white and red colour, a strange fire because it 

meant a different thing to him. 

It was not burning; it was warming! 

He saw many hands held to its warmth, hands without arms, hidden in darkness. Above the 

hands, motionless faces that were only moved and tossed and flickered with firelight. He hadn't 

known fire could look this way. He had never thought in his life that it could give as well as take. 

Even its smell was different. 

How long he stood he did not know, but there was a foolish and yet delicious sense of knowing 

himself as an animal come from the forest, drawn by the fire. He was a thing of brush and liquid 

eye, of fur and muzzle and hoof, he was a thing of horn and blood that would smell like autumn 

if you bled it out on the ground. He stood a long long time, listening to the warm crackle of the 

flames. 

There was a silence gathered all about that fire and the silence was in the men's faces, and time 

was there, time enough to sit by this rusting track under the trees, and look at the world and turn 

it over with the eyes, as if it were held to the centre of the bonfire, a piece of steel these men 

were all shaping. It was not only the fire that was different. It was the silence. Montag moved 

toward this special silence that was concerned with all of the world. 

And then the voices began and they were talking, and he could hear nothing of what the voices 

said, but the sound rose and fell quietly and the voices were turning the world over and looking 

at it; the voices knew the land and the trees and the city which lay down the track by the river. 

The voices talked of everything, there was nothing they could not talk about, he knew from the 

very cadence and motion and continual stir of curiosity and wonder in them. 

And then one of the men looked up and saw him, for the first or perhaps the seventh time, and a 

voice called to Montag: 

"All right, you can come out now ! " 

Montag stepped back into the shadows. 

"It's all right," the voice said. "You're welcome here." 

Montag walked slowly toward the fire and the five old men sitting there dressed in dark blue 

denim pants and jackets and dark blue suits. He did not know what to say to them. 

"Sit down," said the man who seemed to be the leader of the small group. "Have some coffee?" 

He watched the dark steaming mixture pour into a collapsible tin cup, which was handed him 

straight off. He sipped it gingerly and felt them looking at him with curiosity. His lips were 

scalded, but that was good. The faces around him were bearded, but the beards were clean, neat, 

and their hands were clean. They had stood up as if to welcome a guest, and now they sat down 

again. Montag sipped. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks very much." 

"You're welcome, Montag. My name's Granger." He held out a small bottle of colourless fluid. 

"Drink this, too. It'll change the chemical index of your perspiration. Half an hour from now 

you'll smell like two other people. With the Hound after you, the best thing is Bottoms up." 

Montag drank the bitter fluid. 

"You'll stink like a bobcat, but that's all right," said Granger. 



"You know my name;" said Montag. 

Granger nodded to a portable battery TV set by the fire. 

"We've watched the chase. Figured you'd wind up south along the river. When we heard you 

plunging around out in the forest like a drunken elk, we didn't hide as we usually do. We figured 

you were in the river, when the helicopter cameras swung back in over the city. Something funny 

there. The chase is still running. The other way, though." 

"The other way?" 

"Let's have a look." 

Granger snapped the portable viewer on. The picture was a nightmare, condensed, easily passed 

from hand to hand, in the forest, all whirring colour and flight. A voice cried: 

"The chase continues north in the city! Police helicopters are converging on Avenue 87 and Elm 

Grove Park!" 

Granger nodded. "They're faking. You threw them off at the river. They can't admit it. They 

know they can hold their audience only so long. The show's got to have a snap ending, quick! If 

they started searching the whole damn river it might take all night. So they're sniffing for a 

scape-goat to end things with a bang. Watch. They'll catch Montag in the next five minutes ! " 

"But how--" 

"Watch." 

The camera, hovering in the belly of a helicopter, now swung down at an empty street. 

"See that?" whispered Granger. "It'll be you; right up at the end of that street is our victim. See 

how our camera is coming in? Building the scene. Suspense. Long shot. Right now, some poor 

fellow is out for a walk. A rarity. An odd one. Don't think the police don't know the habits of 

queer ducks like that, men who walk mornings for the hell of it, or for reasons of insomnia 

Anyway, the police have had him charted for months, years. Never know when that sort of 

information might be handy. And today, it turns out, it's very usable indeed. It saves face. Oh, 

God, look there!" 

The men at the fire bent forward. 

On the screen, a man turned a corner. The Mechanical Hound rushed forward into the viewer, 

suddenly. The helicopter light shot down a dozen brilliant pillars that built a cage all about the 

man. 

A voice cried, "There's Montag ! The search is done!" 

The innocent man stood bewildered, a cigarette burning in his hand. He stared at the Hound, not 

knowing what it was. He probably never knew. He glanced up at the sky and the wailing sirens. 

The cameras rushed down. The Hound leapt up into the air with a rhythm and a sense of timing 

that was incredibly beautiful. Its needle shot out. It was suspended for a moment in their gaze, as 

if to give the vast audience time to appreciate everything, the raw look of the victim's face, the 

empty street, the steel animal a bullet nosing the target. 

"Montag, don't move!" said a voice from the sky. 

The camera fell upon the victim, even as did the Hound. Both reached him simultaneously. The 

victim was seized by Hound and camera in a great spidering, clenching grip. He screamed. He 

screamed. He screamed! 

Blackout. 

Silence. 

Darkness. 

Montag cried out in the silence and turned away. 

Silence. 



And then, after a time of the men sitting around the fire, their faces expressionless, an announcer 

on the dark screen said, "The search is over, Montag is dead; a crime against society has been 

avenged." 

Darkness. 

"We now take you to the Sky Room of the Hotel Lux for a half-hour of Just-Before-Dawn, a 

programme of-" 

Granger turned it off. 

"They didn't show the man's face in focus. Did you notice? 

Even your best friends couldn't tell if it was you. They scrambled it just enough to let the 

imagination take over. Hell," he whispered. "Hell." 

Montag said nothing but now, looking back, sat with his eyes fixed to the blank screen, 

trembling. 

Granger touched Montag's arm. "Welcome back from the dead." Montag nodded. Granger went 

on. "You might as well know all of us, now. This is Fred Clement, former occupant of the 

Thomas Hardy chair at Cambridge in the years before it became an Atomic Engineering School. 

This other is Dr. Simmons from U.C.L.A., a specialist in Ortega y Gasset; Professor West here 

did quite a bit for ethics, an ancient study now, for Columbia University quite some years ago. 

Reverend Padover here gave a few lectures thirty years ago and lost his flock between one 

Sunday and the next for his views. He's been bumming with us some time now. Myself: I wrote a 

book called The Fingers in the Glove; the Proper Relationship between the Individual and 

Society, and here I am! Welcome, Montag! " 

"I don't belong with you," said Montag, at last, slowly. "I've been an idiot all the way." 

"We're used to that. We all made the right kind of mistakes, or we wouldn't be here. When we 

were separate individuals, all we had was rage. I struck a fireman when he came to burn my 

library years ago. I've been running ever since. You want to join us, Montag?" 

"Yes." 

"What have you to offer?" 

"Nothing. I thought I had part of the Book of Ecclesiastes and maybe a little of Revelation, but I 

haven't even that now." 

"The Book of Ecclesiastes would be fine. Where was it?" 

"Here," Montag touched his head. 

"Ah," Granger smiled and nodded. 

"What's wrong? Isn't that all right?" said Montag. 

"Better than all right; perfect!" Granger turned to the Reverend. "Do we have a Book of 

Ecclesiastes?" 

"One. A man named Harris of Youngstown." 

"Montag." Granger took Montag's shoulder firmly. "Walk carefully. Guard your health. If 

anything should happen to Harris, you are the Book of Ecclesiastes. See how important you've 

become in the last minute!" 

"But I've forgotten!" 

"No, nothing's ever lost. We have ways to shake down your clinkers for you." 

"But I've tried to remember!" 

"Don't try. It'll come when we need it. All of us have photographic memories, but spend a 

lifetime learning how to block off the things that are really in there. Simmons here has worked 



on it for twenty years and now we've got the method down to where we can recall anything that's 

been read once. Would you like, some day, Montag, to read Plato's Republic?" 

"Of course!" 

"I am Plato's Republic. Like to read Marcus Aurelius? Mr. Simmons is Marcus." 

"How do you do?" said Mr. Simmons. 

"Hello," said Montag. 

"I want you to meet Jonathan Swift, the author of that evil political book, Gulliver's Travels! And 

this other fellow is Charles Darwin, and-this one is Schopenhauer, and this one is Einstein, and 

this one here at my elbow is Mr. Albert Schweitzer, a very kind philosopher indeed. Here we all 

are, Montag. Aristophanes and Mahatma Gandhi and Gautama Buddha and Confucius and 

Thomas Love Peacock and Thomas Jefferson and Mr. Lincoln, if you please. We are also 

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John." 

Everyone laughed quietly. 

"It can't be," said Montag. 

"It is," replied Granger, smiling. " We're book-burners, too. We read the books and burnt them, 

afraid they'd be found. Micro-filming didn't pay off; we were always travelling, we didn't want to 

bury the film and come back later. Always the chance of discovery. Better to keep it in the old 

heads, where no one can see it or suspect it. We are all bits and pieces of history and literature 

and international law, Byron, Tom Paine, Machiavelli, or Christ, it's here. And the hour is late. 

And the war's begun. And we are out here, and the city is there, all wrapped up in its own coat of 

a thousand colours. What do you think, Montag?" 

"I think I was blind trying to do things my way, planting books in firemen's houses and sending 

in alarms." 

"You did what you had to do. Carried out on a national scale, it might have worked beautifully. 

But our way is simpler and, we think, better. All we want to do is keep the knowledge we think 

we will need, intact and safe. We're not out to incite or anger anyone yet. For if we are destroyed, 

the knowledge is dead, perhaps for good. We are model citizens, in our own special way; we 

walk the old tracks, we lie in the hills at night, and the city people let us be. We're stopped and 

searched occasionally, but there's nothing on our persons to incriminate us. The organization is 

flexible, very loose, and fragmentary. Some of us have had plastic surgery on our faces and 

fingerprints. Right now we have a horrible job; we're waiting for the war to begin and, as 

quickly, end. It's not pleasant, but then we're not in control, we're the odd minority crying in the 

wilderness. When the war's over, perhaps we can be of some use in the world." 

"Do you really think they'll listen then?" 

"If not, we'll just have to wait. We'll pass the books on to our children, by word of mouth, and let 

our children wait, in turn, on the other people. A lot will be lost that way, of course. 

But you can't make people listen. They have to come round in their own time, wondering what 

happened and why the world blew up under them. It can't last." 

"How many of you are there?" 

"Thousands on the roads, the abandoned railtracks, tonight, bums on the outside, libraries inside. 

It wasn't planned, at first. Each man had a book he wanted to remember, and did. Then, over a 

period of twenty years or so, we met each other, travelling, and got the loose network together 

and set out a plan. The most important single thing we had to pound into ourselves was that we 

were not important, we mustn't be pedants; we were not to feel superior to anyone else in the 

world. We're nothing more than dust-jackets for books, of no significance otherwise. Some of us 

live in small towns. Chapter One of Thoreau's Walden in Green River, Chapter Two in Willow 



Farm, Maine. Why, there's one town in Maryland, only twenty-seven people, no bomb'll ever 

touch that town, is the complete essays of a man named Bertrand Russell. Pick up that town, 

almost, and flip the pages, so many pages to a person. And when the war's over, some day, some 

year, the books can be written again, the people will be called in, one by one, to recite what they 

know and we'll set it up in type until another Dark Age, when we might have to do the whole 

damn thing over again. But that's the wonderful thing about man; he never gets so discouraged or 

disgusted that he gives up doing it all over again, because he knows very well it is important and 

worth the doing." 

"What do we do tonight?" asked Montag. 

"Wait," said Granger. "And move downstream a little way, just in case." 

He began throwing dust and dirt on the fire. 

The other men helped, and Montag helped, and there, in the wilderness, the men all moved their 

hands, putting out the fire together. 

They stood by the river in the starlight. 

Montag saw the luminous dial of his waterproof. Five. Five o'clock in the morning. Another year 

ticked by in a single hour, and dawn waiting beyond the far bank of the river. 

"Why do you trust me?" said Montag. 

A man moved in the darkness. 

"The look of you's enough. You haven't seen yourself in a mirror lately. Beyond that, the city has 

never cared so much about us to bother with an elaborate chase like this to find us. A few 

crackpots with verses in their heads can't touch them, and they know it and we know it; everyone 

knows it. So long as the vast population doesn't wander about quoting the Magna Charta and the 

Constitution, it's all right. The firemen were enough to check that, now and then. No, the cities 

don't bother us. And you look like hell." 

They moved along the bank of the river, going south. Montag tried to see the men's faces, the old 

faces he remembered from the firelight, lined and tired. He was looking for a brightness, a 

resolve, a triumph over tomorrow that hardly seemed to be there. Perhaps he had expected their 

faces to burn and glitter with the knowledge they carried, to glow as lanterns glow, with the light 

in them. But all the light had come from the camp fire, and these men had seemed no different 

from any others who had run a long race, searched a long search, seen good things destroyed, 

and now, very late, were gathering to wait for the end of the party and the blowing out of the 

lamps. They weren't at all certain that the things they carried in their heads might make every 

future dawn glow with a purer light, they were sure of nothing save that the books were on file 

behind their quiet eyes, the books were waiting, with their pages uncut, for the customers who 

might come by in later years, some with clean and some with dirty fingers. 

Montag squinted from one face to another as they walked. 

"Don't judge a book by its cover," someone said. 

And they all laughed quietly, moving downstream. 

There was a shriek and the jets from the city were gone overhead long before the men looked up. 

Montag stared back at the city, far down the river, only a faint glow now. 

"My wife's back there." 

"I'm sorry to hear that. The cities won't do well in the next few days," said Granger. 

"It's strange, I don't miss her, it's strange I don't feel much of anything," said Montag. "Even if 

she dies, I realized a moment ago, I don't think I'll feel sad. It isn't right. Something must be 

wrong with me." 



"Listen," said Granger, taking his arm, and walking with him, holding aside the bushes to let him 
pass. "When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor. He was also a very kind 
man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he 
made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands. 
And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I 
cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or 
help us raise doves and pigeons in the back yard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes 
the way he did. He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was 
no one to do them just the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I've never 
gotten over his death. Often I think, what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he 
died. How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by 
his hands. He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten 
million fine actions the night he passed on." 

Montag walked in silence. "Millie, Millie," he whispered. "Millie." 
"What?" 

"My wife, my wife. Poor Millie, poor Millie. I can't remember anything. I think of her hands but 
I don't see them doing anything at all. They just hang there at her sides or they lie there on her 
lap or there's a cigarette in them, but that's all." 
Montag turned and glanced back. 
What did you give to the city, Montag? 
Ashes. 

What did the others give to each other? 
Nothingness. 

Granger stood looking back with Montag. "Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, 
my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes 
made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere 
to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It 
doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before 
you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference 
between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn- 
cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime." 
Granger moved his hand. "My grandfather showed me some V-2 rocket films once, fifty years 
ago. Have you ever seen the atom-bomb mushroom from two hundred miles up? It's a pinprick, 
it's nothing. With the wilderness all around it. 

"My grandfather ran off the V-2 rocket film a dozen times and then hoped that some day our 
cities would open up and let the green and the land and the wilderness in more, to remind people 
that we're allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back 
what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so 
big. When we forget how close the wilderness is in the night, my grandpa said, some day it will 
come in and get us, for we will have forgotten how terrible and real it can be. You see?" Granger 
turned to Montag. "Grandfather's been dead for all these years, but if you lifted my skull, by 
God, in the convolutions of my brain you'd find the big ridges of his thumbprint. He touched me. 
As I said earlier, he was a sculptor. 'I hate a Roman named Status Quo!' he said to me. 'Stuff your 
eyes with wonder,' he said, 'live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more 
fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, 
there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which 



hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away. To hell with that,' he said, 

'shake the tree and knock the great sloth down on his ass.'" 

"Look!" cried Montag. 

And the war began and ended in that instant. 

Later, the men around Montag could not say if they had really seen anything. Perhaps the merest 

flourish of light and motion in the sky. Perhaps the bombs were there, and the jets, ten miles, five 

miles, one mile up, for the merest instant, like grain thrown over the heavens by a great sowing 

hand, and the bombs drifting with dreadful swiftness, yet sudden slowness, down upon the 

morning city they had left behind. The bombardment was to all intents and purposes finished, 

once the jets had sighted their target, alerted their bombardiers at five thousand miles an hour; as 

quick as the whisper of a scythe the war was finished. Once the bomb-release was yanked it was 

over. Now, a full three seconds, all of the time in history, before the bombs struck, the enemy 

ships themselves were gone half around the visible world, like bullets in which a savage islander 

might not believe because they were invisible; yet the heart is suddenly shattered, the body falls 

in separate motions and the blood is astonished to be freed on the air; the brain squanders its few 

precious memories and, puzzled, dies. 

This was not to be believed. It was merely a gesture. Montag saw the flirt of a great metal fist 

over the far city and he knew the scream of the jets that would follow, would say, after the deed, 

disintegrate, leave no stone on another, perish. Die. 

Montag held the bombs in the sky for a single moment, with his mind and his hands reaching 

helplessly up at them. "Run!" he cried to Faber. To Clarisse, "Run!" To Mildred, "Get out, get 

out of there! " But Clarisse, he remembered, was dead. And Faber was out; there in the deep 

valleys of the country somewhere the five a.m. bus was on its way from one desolation to 

another. Though the desolation had not yet arrived, was still in the air, it was certain as man 

could make it. Before the bus had run another fifty yards on the highway, its destination would 

be meaningless, and its point of departure changed from metropolis to junkyard. 

And Mildred . . . 

Get out, run! 

He saw her in her hotel room somewhere now in the halfsecond remaining with the bombs a 

yard, a foot, an inch from her building. He saw her leaning toward the great shimmering walls of 

colour and motion where the family talked and talked and talked to her, where the family prattled 

and chatted and said her name and smiled at her and said nothing of the bomb that was an inch, 

now a half-inch, now a quarter-inch from the top of the hotel. Leaning into the wall as if all of 

the hunger of looking would find the secret of her sleepless unease there. Mildred, leaning 

anxiously, nervously, as if to plunge, drop, fall into that swarming immensity of colour to drown 

in its bright happiness. 

The first bomb struck. 

"Mildred! " 

Perhaps, who would ever know? Perhaps the great broadcasting stations with their beams of 

colour and light and talk and chatter went first into oblivion. 

Montag, falling flat, going down, saw or felt, or imagined he saw or felt the walls go dark in 

Millie's face, heard her screaming, because in the millionth part of time left, she saw her own 

face reflected there, in a mirror instead of a crystal ball, and it was such a wildly empty face, all 

by itself in the room, touching nothing, starved and eating of itself, that at last she recognized it 

as her own and looked quickly up at the ceiling as it and the entire structure of the hotel blasted 

down upon her, carrying her with a million pounds of brick, metal, plaster, and wood, to meet 



other people in the hives below, all on their quick way down to the cellar where the explosion rid 
itself of them in its own unreasonable way. 

I remember. Montag clung to the earth. I remember. Chicago. Chicago, a long time ago. Millie 
and I. That's where we met! I remember now. Chicago. A long time ago. 

The concussion knocked the air across and down the river, turned the men over like dominoes in 
a line, blew the water in lifting sprays, and blew the dust and made the trees above them mourn 
with a great wind passing away south. Montag crushed himself down, squeezing himself small, 
eyes tight. He blinked once. And in that instant saw the city, instead of the bombs, in the air. 
They had displaced each other. For another of those impossible instants the city stood, rebuilt 
and unrecognizable, taller than it had ever hoped or strived to be, taller than man had built it, 
erected at last in gouts of shattered concrete and sparkles of torn metal into a mural hung like a 
reversed avalanche, a million colours, a million oddities, a door where a window should be, a top 
for a bottom, a side for a back, and then the city rolled over and fell down dead. 
Montag, lying there, eyes gritted shut with dust, a fine wet cement of dust in his now shut mouth, 
gasping and crying, now thought again, I remember, I remember, I remember something else. 
What is it? Yes, yes, part of the Ecclesiastes and Revelation. Part of that book, part of it, quick 
now, quick, before it gets away, before the shock wears off, before the wind dies. Book of 
Ecclesiastes. Here. He said it over to himself silently, lying flat to the trembling earth, he said the 
words of it many times and they were perfect without trying and there was no Denham's 
Dentifrice anywhere, it was just the Preacher by himself, standing there in his mind, looking at 
him .... 

"There," said a voice. 

The men lay gasping like fish laid out on the grass. They held to the earth as children hold to 
familiar things, no matter how cold or dead, no matter what has happened or will happen, their 
fingers were clawed into the dirt, and they were all shouting to keep their eardrums from 
bursting, to keep their sanity from bursting, mouths open, Montag shouting with them, a protest 
against the wind that ripped their faces and tore at their lips, making their noses bleed. 
Montag watched the great dust settle and the great silence move down upon their world. And 
lying there it seemed that he saw every single grain of dust and every blade of grass and that he 
heard every cry and shout and whisper going up in the world now. Silence fell down in the 
sifting dust, and all the leisure they might need to look around, to gather the reality of this day 
into their senses. 

Montag looked at the river. We'll go on the river. He looked at the old railroad tracks. Or we'll go 
that way. Or we'll walk on the highways now, and we'll have time to put things into ourselves. 
And some day, after it sets in us a long time, it'll come out of our hands and our mouths. And a 
lot of it will be wrong, but just enough of it will be right. We'll just start walking today and see 
the world and the way the world walks around and talks, the way it really looks. I want to see 
everything now. And while none of it will be me when it goes in, after a while it'll all gather 
together inside and it'll be me. Look at the world out there, my God, my God, look at it out there, 
outside me, out there beyond my face and the only way to really touch it is to put it where it's 
finally me, where it's in the blood, where it pumps around a thousand times ten thousand a day. I 
get hold of it so it'll never run off. I'll hold on to the world tight some day. I've got one finger on 
it now; that's a beginning. 
The wind died. 

The other men lay a while, on the dawn edge of sleep, not yet ready to rise up and begin the day's 
obligations, its fires and foods, its thousand details of putting foot after foot and hand after hand. 



They lay blinking their dusty eyelids. You could hear them breathing fast, then slower, then slow 

Montag sat up. 

He did not move any further, however. The other men did likewise. The sun was touching the 

black horizon with a faint red tip. The air was cold and smelled of a coming rain. 

Silently, Granger arose, felt his arms, and legs, swearing, swearing incessantly under his breath, 

tears dripping from his face. He shuffled down to the river to look upstream. 

"It's flat," he said, a long time later. "City looks like a heap of baking-powder. It's gone." And a 

long time after that. "I wonder how many knew it was coming? I wonder how many were 

surprised?" 

And across the world, thought Montag, how many other cities dead? And here in our country, 

how many? A hundred, a thousand? 

Someone struck a match and touched it to a piece of dry paper taken from their pocket, and 

shoved this under a bit of grass and leaves, and after a while added tiny twigs which were wet 

and sputtered but finally caught, and the fire grew larger in the early morning as the sun came up 

and the men slowly turned from looking up river and were drawn to the fire, awkwardly, with 

nothing to say, and the sun coloured the backs of their necks as they bent down. 

Granger unfolded an oilskin with some bacon in it. "We'll have a bite. Then we'll turn around 

and walk upstream. They'll be needing us up that way." 

Someone produced a small frying-pan and the bacon went into it and the frying-pan was set on 

the fire. After a moment the bacon began to flutter and dance in the pan and the sputter of it 

filled the morning air with its aroma. The men watched this ritual silently. 

Granger looked into the fire. "Phoenix." 

"What?" 

"There was a silly damn bird called a Phoenix back before Christ: every few hundred years he 

built a pyre and burned himself up. He must have been first cousin to Man. But every time he 

burnt himself up he sprang out of the ashes, he got himself born all over again. And it looks like 

we're doing the same thing, over and over, but we've got one damn thing the Phoenix never had. 

We know the damn silly thing we just did. We know all the damn silly things we've done for a 

thousand years, and as long as we know that and always have it around where we can see it, 

some day we'll stop making the goddam funeral pyres and jumping into the middle of them. We 

pick up a few more people that remember, every generation." 

He took the pan off the fire and let the bacon cool and they ate it, slowly, thoughtfully. 

"Now, let's get on upstream," said Granger. "And hold on to one thought: You're not important. 

You're not anything. Some day the load we're carrying with us may help someone. But even 

when we had the books on hand, a long time ago, we didn't use what we got out of them. We 

went right on insulting the dead. We went right on spitting in the graves of all the poor ones who 

died before us. We're going to meet a lot of lonely people in the next week and the next month 

and the next year. And when they ask us what we're doing, you can say, We're remembering. 

That's where we'll win out in the long run. And some day we'll remember so much that we'll 

build the biggest goddam steam-shovel in history and dig the biggest grave of all time and shove 

war in and cover it up. Come on now, we're going to go build a mirror-factory first and put out 

nothing but mirrors for the next year and take a long look in them." 

They finished eating and put out the fire. The day was brightening all about them as if a pink 

lamp had been given more wick. In the trees, the birds that had flown away now came back and 

settled down. 



Montag began walking and after a moment found that the others had fallen in behind him, going 
north. He was surprised, and moved aside to let Granger pass, but Granger looked at him and 
nodded him on. Montag went ahead. He looked at the river and the sky and the rusting track 
going back down to where the farms lay, where the barns stood full of hay, where a lot of people 
had walked by in the night on their way from the city. Later, in a month or six months, and 
certainly not more than a year, he would walk along here again, alone, and keep right on going 
until he caught up with the people. 

But now there was a long morning's walk until noon, and if the men were silent it was because 
there was everything to think about and much to remember. Perhaps later in the morning, when 
the sun was up and had warmed them, they would begin to talk, or just say the things they 
remembered, to be sure they were there, to be absolutely certain that things were safe in them. 
Montag felt the slow stir of words, the slow simmer. And when it came to his turn, what could he 
say, what could he offer on a day like this, to make the trip a little easier? To everything there is 
a season. Yes. A time to break down, and a time to build up. Yes. A time to keep silence and a 
time to speak. Yes, all that. But what else. What else? Something, something . . . 
And on either side of the river was there a tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and 
yielded her fruit every month; And the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. 
Yes, thought Montag, that's the one I'll save for noon. For noon... 
When we reach the city. 

THE END